


WiP Amnesty: Supernatural

by MontanaHarper



Category: NCIS, Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Community: wip_amnesty, Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-27
Updated: 2009-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:38:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/MontanaHarper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a href="http://montanaharper.dreamwidth.org/19619.html">my journal</a>, 27 April 2009: I'm done with SPN, I think, and I'd really like to put to rest those things I'm never going to finish writing, so here's an unofficial WiP amnesty collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ( the gen one... )

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I write falls under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/us/), including the WiP amnesty stuff, so if anyone wants to finish something, remix it, whatever, that's cool with me so long as the license conditions are met.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gen one that's from John's POV

I used to have a normal life.

It's kind of hazy, like it's something I saw in a movie a long time ago, but I remember getting up every morning, the smell of coffee drifting up the stairs, and by the time I'd showered and shaved Mary would have breakfast on the table. Early on, it was just the two of us, but that's not the time I think of when I think of the life I used to have.

The time that sticks in my memory is after Sammy was born, when I'd wake to Dean—all sharp elbows and knees, like any four-year-old—climbing onto the bed, his gap-toothed grin too close to focus on as he wrapped his arms around my neck. Once he was sure I was getting up, he'd take off again, first into the nursery to tell Sammy good morning and then down to the kitchen to help his mother mix pancake batter.

Even back then, Dean was happiest when he had a routine, something consistent he could count on.

There's not a lot that's routine about the hunting life, but I did what I could to give him structure, even if it meant I ended up more drill instructor than dad. The Corps's training had done all right by me; I figured it'd be good enough for my boys, too. I was half right.

There's a lot of things I know I did wrong over the years, and a lot of things, too, that I'm sure other folks would _say_ I did wrong. I'm pretty sure Mary wouldn't have been happy with me taking the boys on the road, training them up as hunters. She would've said that boys deserve their innocence, deserve to be children for as long as they can be.

She wouldn't have been wrong.

I wish to God I could've given that to my boys, but innocence was something I just couldn't afford, not when the cost might've been their lives. I've got my share of regrets, but teaching Sam and Dean the things they needed to know to protect against the evil in this world? That's not one of 'em.

I try not to waste my time with "if only"s, but sometimes it's hard not to look around and think about how different everything would be if only I'd believed the ghost stories myself instead of just laughing at folks who did. [once you know, you can't un-know]

[ ]

Sam once shouted at me that I needed to let go of my grief already, stop hanging on to it like some kind of twisted security blanket. I don't remember what I shouted back—though I'm sure he does, and there's another regret for you—but whatever it was, it didn't even come close to what I was thinking, because there are some burdens you just can't lay on your kids. You can't tell them you haven't even started to grieve yet, that you feel like you've got no right to grieve for your lover when your boys lost their _mother_. You can't tell them that what they think is grief is really guilt, the weight of it nearly crippling, because you should've known there was something wrong, should've been able to save her.

You can't tell them that you feel like one of the ghosts you hunt, frozen in time and unable to move on because you've got unfinished business.

[ ]

I used to have a normal life. What I have now is just a shadow of that, and living is something I do because I have to, because I can't ever fail my boys like I failed Mary.


	2. ( the j2 one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the j2 one that's a riff off Desperately Seeking Susan

"How'd things go with [girl] last night?" Jared asked, his fingers hovering just under the bar, spotting Sandy as she finished her final set of reps.

She frowned, and even upside-down he could tell it wasn't the effort of bench-pressing her own weight that [caused] the expression. "They didn't," she said, slightly breathless. "She says she's interested, but every time we're alone together it's like she doesn't want me to touch her."

Jared grimaced sympathetically. "That sucks."

"I'm about to call it quits." Sandy gave one final push and settled the bar back into its [brackets]. She sat up and wiped her face with a towel. "Speaking of calling it quits, how're things with you and Chad?"

Jared shook his head, picking out a stack of weights and sliding them onto the bar one at a time, alternating sides. "I know you think he's a jerk—" Sandy snorted and stood to help him load the bar. "—but he's under a lot of stress. Things'll be better once [job thing]."

Jared sat down on the bench, lying back and [settling his grip on the bar -- experimental press].

"Yeah, like [accomplishing job thing] will keep him from sticking his dick where it doesn't belong."

"It was only once—"

"That you know of."

"—and he apologized and was really sweet afterward."

"Jay, you deserve so much better—"

"Did you see the latest personal Chris put up on Craigslist?"

Surprisingly, Sandy let the change of subject slide. "I can't believe you're still [following] those posts. It's a publicity stunt; it's got to be."

"Nah, I think it's real. I mean, what would the publicity be for? Besides, he sounds so sincere."

"Whatever. So what does it say this time?"

Jared recites from memory: "Old Huck Finn seeking modern-day Tom. Meet me at [place], noon Thursday."

Sandy frowns. "That's not very romantic."

"It's from one of KANE's songs," Jared explains patiently, even though he's sure he's told her this more than once in the past. "Chris always uses lyrics in his messages to Tommy."

[moving toward locker rooms? More exposition re: Chris/Tommy.]

"I was thinking—"

"Don't strain yourself, [sweetie]," Sandy interrupts sweetly, and Jared [retaliates].

"Shut up. I don't have anything going on Thursday. I was thinking maybe I'd go down to [place], maybe watch Chris and Tommy's big reunion."


	3. ( the Dean/Gibbs one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Dean/Gibbs one that I still think would be really hot

This was probably the single worst plan Jethro had ever okayed, but Tony's words echoed in his head— _I don't see that we have much choice, boss_ —and he still couldn't argue with that. They were out of time and Jethro was the only one of them who fit the victim profile; he just hated feeling out of his depth.

He took another drink of scotch and leaned back against the bar, checking out the handful of patrons. The obvious couples were scratched off his mental suspect list first, which left only the two guys at the pool table and the one at the other end of the bar. Jethro adjusted his glasses and took a long look at the latter, making sure Abby got a good picture to run, before turning his attention to the pool players. He watched them for a minute, taking in the intimate way they moved in and out of each others' space, and was just about to write them off as a couple, too, when the shorter one glanced up and caught him looking. The raised eyebrow and slow smile in Jethro's direction were unmistakable, and the familiar buzz of adrenaline built under his skin as he watched the man hand off the pool cue and round the table.

Some things never changed, and the high of being on an op was one of them.

The man leaned on the bar beside him, flagging down the bartender and ordering himself another beer. Jethro looked him over more blatantly than he normally would have, comparing him to what they knew of the killer: handsome and confident enough to catch the attention of his intended victims, tall and strong enough to overpower them, with hands large enough to leave the bruises Ducky had found on their bodies.

At the man's sidelong glance, Jethro said, "Is this where I'm supposed to ask if you come here often?"

The laugh he got in response was deep and warm, and the smile was genuine. "That was gonna be my line," the man said, taking a drink of his beer and returning Jethro's appraising look. "Name's Dean."

Jethro had a sense about people. It wasn't infallible, but it was pretty damn accurate—future ex-wives aside—and that sense was telling him that despite all the ways he fit the profile, Dean wasn't a crazed serial killer. Following his gut instinct, Jethro said, "Gibbs."

Dean's gaze raked him again, then his green eyes narrowed. "Master Sergeant Gibbs?" he hazarded.

"Gunnery Sergeant," Jethro corrected, oddly unsurprised at the perceptiveness. "Former."

Setting his beer down and pushing away from the bar, Dean grinned, crooked and cocky, and said, "So, Gunny, we gonna do this thing or not?"

Something twisted in Jethro's stomach, a not-unpleasant combination of heat and anticipation, and for the first time in too many years to count, he was actually tempted by the thought of strong hands and lean muscle and the burn of beard stubble. Instinct or no instinct, he told himself, he couldn't know for sure that Dean wasn't their man until they were in private; the killer only struck when his victims were at their most vulnerable.

"What about your friend?" he asked, nodding toward the booth where Dean's companion was now sitting, surrounded by notebooks and an open laptop.

For a second Dean looked nonplussed, then he chuckled. "My brother? Trust me, he won't even notice we're gone."

The idea of going to a gay bar with your brother seemed more than a little strange, but a quick glance showed the man thoroughly engrossed in his work and not paying any attention to what—or who—Dean was doing. Jethro had a moment of "kids these days," which was followed immediately by the disconcerting realization that he was about to follow one of these "kids" into a public men's room, ostensibly for sex.

After one last glance at the dark head bowed over a computer keyboard, Jethro slipped his glasses off, folded them, and slid them into his jacket pocket. What happened next, whatever it was, wasn't going to be for anyone's eyes but his own.

He watched Dean walk across the room, then tossed back the last of his drink before following. For a second after he pushed open the door, he thought he'd really screwed up; his back hit the wall, rough hands pinning his shoulders and the solid bulk of Dean's body pressing against him. His training took over, and in under five seconds he had Dean on his knees, arm twisted up behind his back and gasping from the blows to his jaw and solar plexus.

[NOTES:

Dean looking sideways up at Gibbs, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, sultry. Gibbs--reaching for sidearm in his shoulder holster--when he realizes Dean didn't resist at all. Says something to Dean, calling him "son." Dean responds with a--slight, but Gibbs can still tell--shiver and a "yes, sir." Gibbs tempted, but he resists. Lets Dean go.

Ghost needs to be seen/experienced by whole team (including Abby), and needs to go after Gibbs. Um. Comes after Gibbs as he's alone in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face once Dean's left? Puts glasses back on, but by then it's too late, the team is on the way because a) loss of visual contact, and b) Abby pulled up Sam and Dean's records? They burst in as the ghost is manhandling him? Abby and Tim get visuals back at the office, Tony and Ziva get first-hand sighting of the ghost? Sam and Dean burst in and rock-salt it. Team can't deny what they saw.

Gibbs and co. take Sam and Dean into custody (Dean having a gut level trust of Gibbs the same way Gibbs knew he wasn't a murderer?) and once back at HQ S & D explain the whole supernatural thing, including all the stuff on their police records. Gibbs orders Abby to destroy the ghost photos she got from the glasses; she whines, but she does it. (Maybe she has a thing for Sam? I'll bet she'd like to climb him like a tree.) Dean says they're going to go take care of the ghost's bones, now that Gibbs is safe.

Dean shows up at Gibbs' house that night (since we know Gibbs is pretty lax about security).

Gibbs: "Mr. Winchester."  
Dean: *not cocky or any of the other things he'd been in their first encounter* "Gunny." *licks lips* "Now, I might've been reading you wrong, but--"  
Gibbs: *does/says something that shows that Dean was totally not reading him wrong*

Gibbs/Dean sexin'. Dean's gone in the morning, and Henricksen (find out canon spelling if poss.) shows up at NCIS HQ. Demands everything Gibbs has on Sam & Dean.

Gibbs: "Give him the files, McGee."  
McGee: *tapping on computer, then looking puzzled/sheepish* "I can't."  
Gibbs: *eyebrows* "And why exactly is that?"  
McGee: "They're gone. Everything. Wiped."  
Gibbs: *shrugging at Henricksen and looking like butter wouldn't melt* "Sorry, Agent Henricksen. I guess you're out of luck."  
Henricksen: *blusters and rants and tells Gibbs he doesn't know what kind of monsters he's dealing with*  
Gibbs: "Oh, I'm pretty sure I do. Anything else the NCIS can do for you?"

*END*]


	4. ( the Jeff/Jared one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Jeff/Jared one that was supposed to be for Killa, but turned into self-indulgent crap because I suck

[HOME]Jared steps into the make-up trailer--an early call that's too damn early, considering how late they were on location last night--and finds someone already there. He must look as surprised as he feels at seeing someone else in his chair, because the guy grins at him and says, "Be out of your way in just a minute, sport." The grin is blinding, and even though Jared's seen the aired version of the pilot and recognizes Jeffrey Dean Morgan, there's a charisma in person that those few minutes of hi-res video don't even begin to do justice to.

Jared realizes he's been silent too long when Morgan continues, "So, you must be my little Sammy, all grown up," and Jared's brain is immediately filled with half a dozen really inappropriate Daddy jokes, some of which come complete with NC-17 imagery.

"Jared Padalecki," he says, holding out his hand and trying to ignore the fact that he's probably blushing.

"Jeffrey Dean Morgan. Call me Jeff."

Jared nods. "Looking forward to working with you, Jeff."

~ * ~ * ~

That's all Jared sees of him that day; Jeff and Loretta are apparently working with the second unit, and Jared and Jensen are on location, shooting pick-ups from last week's show.

[SCARECROW]A couple of weeks later they pass in make-up again, Jeff there for a single afternoon, and if in the intervening time Jared thought maybe he'd imagined the attraction, that theory is blown out of the water the second he catches sight of Jeff's smile, because his heart starts pounding and his mouth is suddenly dry and he doesn't know what to say, which _never_ happens to him.

He's distracted enough for the rest of the day that Jensen picks up on it and manages to give him a full ration of shit even without knowing exactly what's going on; still, Jensen also manages to cover for him a couple of times, so he's willing to take the crap. Up to a point.

"Hell, J," Jensen says after one repeatedly fucked-up take, "we need to find you a girlfriend to go home to, so you're motivated to get shit right the first time."

Jared flips him off. "Blow me, Ackles."

Jensen laughs and says, "Oh, hey, my mistake. We need to find you a _boyfriend_ to go home to, so you're motivated to get shit right the first time," and Jared tries to think of pretty much anything that isn't Jeff, because he's met the guy a grand total of twice and what he knows about him could fit onto a matchbook cover with room left over for some bar-bimbo's phone number.

That thought's a pretty damn good kick in the pants, and he pulls off the rest of the scene without a hitch. It's a little harder to be nonchalant in the face of Jensen's speculative expression, but he pulls that off, too.

~ * ~ * ~

[SHADOW]Jared's first actual scenes with Jeff are on a Thursday, and the week's been pretty hellish already. It's freezing on location, his "wounds" itch like crazy, and Jensen's veering schizophrenically between being the greatest friend a guy ever had and just begging for a good hard smack to the back of the head.

"I'm gonna miss Nicki," Jensen says, his tone too innocent to be sincere. "Though probably not as much as you are."

Jared ignores him, keeping his attention focused on the pages he's memorizing. Truthfully, after four hours of shooting coverage for that scene, he's completely over having Nicki wiggle around in his lap--though he'll deny that with his dying breath.

The Winchester family reunion goes surprisingly well, everyone hitting their marks and generally nailing the emotion of the moment. There's a second when Jared's hugging Jeff and it feels really good--so good he doesn't want to let go--but he'll be damned if he's going to let himself look anything less than professional.

And yeah, he realizes that means he's got it bad.

~ * ~ * ~

[SOMETHING WICKED]A couple weeks later he runs into Jeff at the craft service table. Jeff's clean-shaven, and Jared's first thought is that he likes the scruff better, but then Jeff smiles at him and Jared's not really thinking at all anymore.

"Hey, Jeff, if you're still around when we wrap for the day," he hears himself saying, "you should come with me and Jensen to The Met." At Jeff's expression--equal parts amused and inquisitive--Jared goes on, feeling like he's babbling but not sure how to stop. "It's a pretty decent bar in Gastown; most of the people who go there are students at the local film school, so they're not all over you. Tonight's karaoke, and you haven't seen anything until you've seen Jen doing karaoke when he's smashed...." Jeff's outright laughing now, and Jared trails off.

"Sounds like an experience," Jeff says with a smile that says he's sharing the joke instead of laughing at Jared. "I have to be on a plane back to LA tonight, though. Rain check?"

Jared nods. "Yeah, sure," he says, and then he spends the rest of the day trying to figure out if Jeff's sincere or if he's being let down gently.

~ * ~ * ~

[DEAD MAN'S BLOOD]Apparently Jeff was sincere, because the next time he's up north--this time for a few weeks solid as they film the last three shows of the season--he brings up karaoke between takes.

"Oh, man," Jensen says, smacking Jared on the back of the head. "You are such a fucking jerk."

Jared laughs, dizzy with relief and something else he can't quite name, and moves out of Jensen's reach while Jeff looks between the two of them, puzzled. "He's embarrassed about the karaoke thing," Jared explains, not even bothering to dodge away from Jensen's next swing; there's no real power behind it and Jared knows it. Jensen's protests are mostly for show.

When they wrap for the night, Jared rushes through a lukewarm shower and arrives, breathless, at the trailer that has Jeff's name inked in Sharpie on a wide strip of masking tape across the door. He's just raised his hand to knock when the door swings open to reveal Jeff, his hair shower-damp and curling at the nape of his neck, and Jared is momentarily speechless.

Jeff doesn't seem to notice, because he just says, "So, who's the designated driver?"

Jared shakes his head and makes a concerted effort to get his shit together. "Nobody. C'mon, I'll show you."

They swing by Jensen's trailer and then the three of them head down the street, Jared nodding at the new PA, who's apparently been put in charge of the barricades. It's late enough--and has probably been boring for long enough, too--that the few gawkers who'd been hanging around the location have wandered off, so they've pretty much got the sidewalk to themselves.

It's a short walk to the station, and they make small-talk along the way, but it's been a long day and Jared, at least, is feeling more subdued than usual. As Jensen heads for the ticket machine, he shoots Jared a look over his shoulder and then says, "I hear you have your dog with you this trip, Jeff. You should introduce her to Jared's dogs." Which is when Jared realizes that Jensen's got him cold, and he pastes on a friendly grin to cover his shock.

Jeff sounds enthusiastic about the idea of bringing "his girl" to meet Harley and Sadie, and Jensen is grinning as he looks back and forth between the two of them, confirming Jared's suspicion that this is his idea of subtle matchmaking. The train ride isn't a long one, and the time passes pretty quickly as Jeff tells them the story of hand-feeding Bisou when she was a puppy. Before Jared knows it, they're pulling into the Waterfront station and Jensen's leading the way along Cordova to The Met.

They've barely had a chance to sit down when one of the girls Jensen's taken to hanging out with on karaoke nights bounces up to them and drops into his lap. Jared can never keep them straight; this one's the redhead, and he feels like he should know her name, but he's totally blanking. The only thing he can remember is that she's a screenwriting student at the film school.

"Hey, guys," she says with a grin, and then she nods at Jeff. "Fresh meat?"

"Something like that," Jensen answers before Jared has a chance to.

Jeff shakes his head, though. "No spotlight for me tonight," he says, and she looks disappointed, but Jared's more than a little pleased because that means he'll have more time alone at the table with Jeff.

"We're just going to have to ease him into it." Jensen's stage whisper carries across the table, just as Jared knows he means it to.

"True story," she stage-whispers back. "You have to take it slow with virgins." Jeff cracks up, and she grins like he passed some kind of test, holding out her hand and saying, "I'm [NAME]."

"Jeff."

Jensen, who's been busy getting the attention of the nearest cocktail waitress, interrupts to say, "Also known as the long-absent Papa Winchester."

[NAME] rolls her eyes. "Just because I don't slobber all over you like some crazed fangirl doesn't mean I don't watch the show," she tells him. Behind them, the DJ calls out a number. "Oh, crap! It's our turn." She slides off his lap and grabs his hand, dragging him out of his chair and up toward the stage just as the waitress finally appears at the table.

"JD," Jensen calls over his shoulder, and Jared nods and orders him a double Jack Daniels, neat, and a Molson for himself. The waitress reels off a list of beers on tap and Jeff orders some kind of brown ale that Jared's never heard of.

Jensen's quiet but vehement "oh, _hell_ no," is picked up and amplified by the microphone, as is [NAME]'s bubbling laughter. She leans over and whispers something to him, and even from here Jared can see him sigh, but he's still standing there when the music starts so obviously she's talked him into whatever it is. It takes just a few notes before Jared recognizes the song, and then he's cracking up so hard he's in danger of sliding off his chair and onto the floor. Jensen shoots him a look that could peel paint, which doesn't help at all with the near-hysterical laughter.

"Well, I'm packing up my game and I'm-a head out West," Jensen's rapping, and Jared has to put his forehead against the tabletop and focus on breathing, because his chest is starting to ache from the lack of oxygen. When Jensen hits the chorus, Jared vaguely hears [NAME] join in, harmonizing effortlessly.

Under the table, Jeff's knee bumps his, and then Jared's taking a shuddering breath, the laughter finally under control, more from the shock of the touch than from Jared actually getting his shit together. Something must show on Jared's face, because Jeff's expression goes from relaxed to shuttered instantly, and Jared kicks himself because his plan-- Well, he doesn't actually have a _plan_ , really, but this is definitely not the way he sees it happening.

More privacy would be nice, for one thing.

Up on the makeshift stage, Jensen is still singing--he's slipped into the old-school country twang Jared blames on too much time spent with Steve and Chris--and it would be easy enough to deflect Jeff's attention to that, easy to pretend nothing's happened. He might never get another chance, though, and even if he does, what would Jeff think of him punking out this time? No, it's now or never.

"I was thinking," Jared starts, "that if you don't have other plans, maybe you'd want to come by--" Which, of course, is when the waitress shows up with their drinks, because Jared's luck sucks out loud. "--my place some night this week and I could make us dinner," he continues as soon as she's gone, but Jeff's already shaking his head.

"Sorry. Between this gig and Grey's, my schedule's pretty crazy. By the end of the day, I'm usually beat." Jeff doesn't look freaked or disgusted, but Jared knows that doesn't really mean anything; they both lie for a living.

Still, even if he's not willing to call it a victory, he's not counting it as defeat yet. He smiles, nods and says, "Maybe another time," and turns his attention back to the karaoke stage, where the last strains of "Cowboy" are fading away. After a brief whispered conversation with the DJ, Jensen shoots [NAME] a wide grin that, if it had been directed at him, would've sent Jared running the other way. "This ought to be good," he tells Jeff.

He can tell when the title info comes up on the screen, because [NAME] makes a face and punches Jensen's arm and Jensen's laugh doesn't need the amplification of the mic to echo across the crowded bar. Then the music starts, but it's not until the chorus starts that Jared recognizes it, and when he does, he snickers.

Beside him, Jeff is nursing his beer and watching with a faintly puzzled expression. "So, either she's _not_ his girlfriend," Jeff says, "or he's got a pretty cold way of breaking up with her."

On stage, Jensen's putting every bit of earnestness he can manage into his performance. "Baby, sometimes love just ain't enough," he sings, gazing down at [NAME] with the perfect blend of heartbreak and regret, and she looks like she's really having to work to keep the laughter in.

Shaking his head, Jared says, "Nah, definitely not his girlfriend. He's taking a break from dating, and I think [NAME]'s mostly into girls anyway." He takes the last swig of his beer and tries to watch Jeff unobtrusively.

Jeff's kicked back in his chair, legs stretched out toward the stage and crossed at the ankle, and he's not quite halfway through his own drink. Without even looking, he says, just barely loud enough for Jared to hear, "It's nothing personal, okay? I'm flattered, really I am, but you should find someone your own age."

And that makes Jared's jaw clench, because he can't count the number of times he's been told he's too young to do what he wants. He thought once he turned twenty-one it would stop happening, but it's been three years and he's still running into this brick wall of ageism. It's even worse when the implication is that he's too young to _know_ what he wants, because Jared's been pretty clear about knowing his own mind since he was twelve and decided he wanted to act.

He suspects that in this, as in every decision that's come before it--every decision that had people shaking their heads, smiling condescendingly at him, and pissing him the hell off--he's just going to have to push the issue until he gets his way. Carefully, and with every bit of charm he can muster, because it's a matter of convincing Jeff he knows what he's asking for, that he doesn't care if Jeff's a few years older than him, and he's never going to manage that if he comes across as spoiled brat having a tantrum.

Before he can figure out where to start, though, Jensen's back at the table, dropping into his chair and reaching for his drink. [NAME]'s quicker, and she snatches the glass and dances out of reach before taking a generous swallow. "Next time," she says, handing it back to him, "I'm going to make you sing Meatloaf." She waits a second while Jensen fakes a look of horror. "I was thinking 'Paradise by the Dashboard Light.'"

~ * ~ * ~

Jared wakes up to the sound of his cell-phone ringing. It's Liam, calling to say they've changed the day's shooting schedule and none of the principals need to show up until late afternoon. Apparently there's something going on with the weather and the phase of the moon, and Tony's gotten together with Russ and decided to get in some night shooting over the next couple of days. Much as Jared would like to go back to sleep, there's no way it's happening; the phone woke Sadie, too, and she's enthusiastically licking his face to let him know it's time for breakfast and a run.

He's not sure whether to be worried or relieved to find out he's got an extra handful of hours before facing Jeff again. One the one hand, he's got more time to marshal his arguments; on the other, he's got more time to stress and freak out. He decides not to think about it at all, at least not until after he's taken the dogs out for their morning run and then showered.

He dumps food into their dishes and puts a skillet on the stove, popping open his laptop and scanning news headlines while he waits for it to heat up. Four sunny-side-up eggs, half a pound of bacon, and a mess of potatoes later, the studio courier still hasn't shown up with the revised call-sheet and Jared's sides for the day, and he's pretty much given up on waiting and is tying his sneakers when the doorbell finally rings.

It's not the courier; instead, it's Jensen, waving around a manila envelope with Jared's name neatly block-printed on the front. "I cannot believe you're this awake this early," Jensen says, tossing the envelope on the table by the door and grabbing Jared's arm. "Come on. I need coffee."

Jared digs in his heels just long enough to get Sadie and Harley on their leashes, then lets himself be dragged out. He learned months ago that it's no use arguing with Jensen because it just makes him sullen, and that's something no one wants. Well, no one but the hordes of screaming fangirls, who apparently think Jensen looks sexy when he's all brooding, which Jared really doesn't get. That's not to say Jared doesn't appreciate Jensen's appearance in a purely aesthetic sense, but he knows far too much about the moods behind the expressions to be more interested. Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.

Once they're sitting at one of the little outdoor tables, the dogs jostling for position around their feet and a green canvas umbrella keeping the worst of the drizzling rain off them, Jared says, "Why, exactly, are you playing courier this morning?"

Jensen looks up briefly from his coffee. "Just being a good Samaritan, that's all." Jared snorts. "Okay, fine," Jensen allows, rolling his eyes. "I wanted to talk to you about you and Jeff. _Before_ we're all in front of a bunch of cameras, trying to pretend nothing's weird or uncomfortable."

For half a second, Jared considers bluffing, but after last night he doesn't think Jensen will buy it. Instead, he shrugs and says, "There's nothing to talk about. If it's going to be weird and uncomfortable, then it's going to be weird and uncomfortable." He intends to leave it there, but in the face of Jensen's pointed silence and raised eyebrows, he finally adds, "There's no reason for it to be too awkward, okay?"

"No half-drunk late-night blowjobs in a dingy alley between the SkyTrain station and your place?" Jensen asks, leaning forward a little and lowering his voice. "No sneaking out before dawn without even leaving you a note?"

Now it's Jared's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You watch too much Showtime, Jen."

~ * ~ * ~

The first scene of the day _is_ a little awkward, but Jared's prepared for it, has been ever since he finally opened the manila envelope, compared the call-sheet to the sides, and realized that they were in for a day of hostility. After the first couple of takes, things smooth out, and by the time they break for lunch it's like the previous night hadn't even happened.

Jared fills a couple of Styrofoam clamshells with everything off the craft service tables that looks good, and he's about to head for his trailer when Jensen says, "Check out that sunset. Be a shame to waste that," and shoulders Jared toward the mostly empty cafeteria tables that are set out under a [marquee] for the crew. "C'mon, Jeff, don't be all anti-social and shit."

Jeff follows, but Jared can see his hesitation. He shrugs, tries to convey 'sorry he's such a freak' without words and without Jensen catching him, and Jeff gives him a tiny nod in return. Lunch is mostly silent and completely awkward, especially when Jensen excuses himself to make a phone call halfway through.

"He means well," Jared says, pitching his voice so it doesn't carry to any of the other tables. "And he's mostly a good guy, when he's not being an ass." That gets a chuckle from Jeff, so Jared continues, "I'll tell him to lay off. Again."

"Thanks. The Emma Woodhouse routine gets old pretty fast."

Jared glances over out of the corner of his eye. "You could always just come over for dinner," he says with a quick grin. "Save yourself the aggravation."

Jeff shakes his head, but he's half smiling and he doesn't actually say no, so Jared decides it's a step in the right direction.

~ * ~ * ~

The next week there's enough screen-time being devoted to Jeff's solo storyline that Jared and Jensen actually get a little bit of a break. Jensen spends his downtime at home, or crashed out on the couch in his trailer, but Jared tends to wander over to wherever Jeff's filming, hanging out behind the cameras and just watching.

NOTES:

[Starts during the filming of Home. Then Scarecrow, Shadow, Something Wicked, Dead Man's Blood, Salvation, Devil's Trap.

JDM puts Jared off, saying that it's a crush and he's young and should find someone closer to his own age. Each time they work together, JP says "now?" and is rebuffed.

Between Dead Man's Blood and Salvation, both Jeff and Jared have to meet with the Latin dialect coach. Jeff just has to learn a simple blessing, but Jared has to learn a whole exorcism; he doesn't need it until Devil's Trap, but it's long and he wants extra time to work on it. Or that's the excuse, at least.

Set during/after filming of the last three eps of S1. It's crazy busy because Jeff has to fly back and forth, and everything's all very emotional and high-strung on set. They're all dredging up deep emotions and filming over and over again scenes where they're close to tears--especially Jared, who's got tear-filled scenes with both Jensen and Jeff. And then, when he's just really emotionally vulnerable and open, and is coping with these strong feelings about Jeff--not like Jeff's a father figure, because Jared's really happy with his own father and no one really could fill that slot in his life, but feeling really close to him anyway--suddenly they're doing these scenes where Jeff's right there, in his face and being menacing and who knew Jared found menacing hot, which is more than a little awkward, though he's pretty sure that his baggy jeans can hide a multitude of sins.

...and he is not going to pop a boner while [] because, well, unprofessional is the _least_ of his issues there.

After they wrap on Devil's Trap, Jeff finally agrees to go out with Jared once, and they end up in bed. Jeff figures that'll be the end of it--he'll be out of Jared's system--but Jared spends the first half of hiatus not being able to do anything but think about Jeff. Finally, he goes to Jeff's house.]


	5. ( the j3 one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the j3 one that was supposed to be a sequel to [De Brevitate Vitae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4355)

So Jeff's sitting in the—stolen, technically—hero Impala on a dirt road somewhere outside of Vancouver, with Jensen looking at him like he's USDA Prime and Jared nuzzling at his neck from the back seat, and all he can think is: _How the hell did we get here?_ Not literally, because he remembers the drive, remembers them stopping, and _definitely_ remembers Jared's deep-voiced, "It's gonna be so good, I promise," but he doesn't have a clue when it went from being three guys just hanging out to three guys about to fuck.

Then Jensen reaches across the empty space between them and slides one hand up Jeff's thigh, thumb pressing into the inseam, and Jeff's not really worrying about how they got here anymore. Jensen stops just short of where Jeff's dick is rapidly getting too hard for comfort within the confines of his jeans, and Jeff shifts, trying to ease the pressure a little. The upholstery creaks as he moves, the sound loud in the otherwise-quiet car.

Jared chuckles softly against his ear. "Need some help?" he asks, not waiting for an answer before snaking an arm over Jeff's shoulder and going straight for his fly. As Jared pops the button free, Jensen leans in and covers Jeff's mouth with his own, swallowing Jeff's moan.

The kiss is slow and deep, the weight of Jensen's single-minded attention almost tangible, like he's trying to learn Jeff's mouth, trying to memorize his responses. Jared's hand is warm against Jeff's stomach, long fingers edging deliberately under the waistband of Jeff's shorts, and he's still pressing lazy open-mouthed kisses against the side of Jeff's neck. It's been a hell of a long time since Jeff's hooked up with a guy, but not so long that he doesn't remember what it was like—furious and rough and dirty, as much fighting as fucking. It was never like this.

With his palms flat against Jensen's chest, Jeff can feel the steady, heavy beat of Jensen's heart. He pushes gently and Jensen eases up, then pulls away, thumb still stroking easily at Jeff's inner thigh. [Jensen: flush high on his cheeks, lips parted and shiny-slick, eyes dark with barely a ring of green.]

[ ]

"Jesus. You boys choreograph this ahead of time or what?"


	6. ( the Jeff/Jared one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Jeff/Jared one that never really worked for me

Jeff’s backed up against the wall, pinned by the length of Jared’s body against him and the way his hands cup Jeff’s jaw. Jared’s mouth on his is hot and fierce and urgent, like he’s suffocating and Jeff is oxygen. _Or maybe just like Jared’s your average twenty-four-year-old guy with a raging hard-on and only a few minutes to do something about it_ , he thinks, as Jared shoves the jacket off his shoulders and starts fumbling with his shirt buttons, all while trying not to break their kiss.

Someone’s got to slow this freight train down, or there’s going to be one hell of a wreck. It seems like Jared’s a little too distracted to care right now, so it’s up to Jeff. It’s never easy to say “no” to Jared, and even “hang on a minute” is sometimes more than Jeff can manage when Jared’s doing his best to emulate a force of nature. Still, Jeff makes the effort, wrapping his hands around Jared’s wrists and pushing gently until Jared gets the message and lets himself be moved back a half step.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Jeff says with a grin, letting his jacket drop to the ground and reaching for Jared’s bottom-most tee-shirt, sliding his hands slowly up under the hem until he can curve his fingers around Jared’s hips. “What’s got you wound so tight?”

Jared blushes, something Jeff has only seen happen a handful of times in the six months they’ve known each other. Now that Jeff’s let go of his wrists again, Jared’s hands come to rest on Jeff’s shoulders, his thumbs rubbing idly at Jeff’s collarbones through several layers of cloth.

“I’ve been looking forward to you being here all week.” Jeff just keeps looking at him, knowing there’s got to be more to it than that, and after a few seconds, Jared caves. “It’s the whole possessed, getting up in our faces, intimidation thing, okay?” he says, looking away. “It’s kinda hot.”

Jeff can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes, but he reels Jared in closer to let him know it’s okay, and he feels the shiver that runs through Jared’s body when they’re pressed against each other again, Jared’s dick a hard line against his stomach. He slides his hands around until his palms are flat against the smooth heat of Jared’s back, then tilts his head up for another kiss.

He waits about thirty seconds before pulling back a little and saying, “You know that’s kind of fucked up, right?”

Jared laughs against his mouth. “As long as you don’t expect me to call you Daddy, I don’t care.”

“Well okay, then. Just so we’re clear on that.”


	7. ( the future!fic Sam/Dean one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the future!fic Sam/Dean one that I really loved but couldn't quite get on paper

**June 2018 // New York, NY**

The third time Dean stops and says, "I can't, Sam. I really can't," they're approaching the security barrier, but Sam knows his reluctance has nothing to do with handing over his ident card to the TSA corporal manning the checkpoint and everything to do with the fact that there's an airport on the other side of the barricades.

Sam sighs, turns to his brother. "Fine. You want to call Angela? Tell her you're not coming?" He watches the twitch of Dean's jaw muscle, knowing the answer but waiting for Dean to come up with it on his own.

"No. Just." Dean's throat works as he swallows, and then he says, plaintively, "Why the hell couldn't she marry an American?"

Looking away to hide his smile, Sam shrugs. "You're the one who told her she should do a semester in Paris," he points out. "What did you expect?"

Dean opens his mouth to answer and Sam interrupts him, "I know, I know. 'What's with kids these days, getting married so young? Why don't they live a little first?' Let's go, Gramps, before you and your walker hold up the line any more than you already have."

The half-hearted punch to his shoulder doesn't really hurt, and the muttered "shut up" is pretty much Dean-speak for "I love you," so Sam counts it as a win.

They step back into the stream of travelers, and make their way through the ident check and the body scan without a hitch. If Sam has any doubts as to how important Angela's wedding is to Dean, they're laid to rest by fact that Dean—who takes a consecrated switchblade and a silver boot-knife when he goes to the john, for fuck's sake—doesn't even try to smuggle a toothpick through security.

Once they're in the right terminal, Dean heads for the nearest overpriced restaurant-slash-bar, and Sam detours past a departures board to check that their flight is on time before following. By the time he sits down next to Dean, his brother's already got an empty shot glass in front of him and is taking a good-sized drink of his beer chaser.

Sam orders a beer for himself, and says, conversationally, "Just so you know, I'm not bailing your ass out if you get arrested on a drunk and disorderly."

Dean shoots Sam a dirty look and gestures for the bartender to bring him another shot.

To Sam's relief, Dean stops as soon as he's in a relaxed, affectionate stage of drunkenness, long before he gets to "belligerent asshole." It means Sam has to keep a closer eye on him or risk getting unexpectedly—and explicitly—groped in public, but Sam can't deny that it's kind of nice having Dean's arm wrapped casually around his waist, Dean's body warm against his side.

Boarding goes pretty smoothly, with Sam only having to stop once, to extricate Dean's hand from his back pocket when they need to get their ident cards out for the soldier at the gate. He settles himself into the window seat and firmly closes the shade, considers pulling the emergency procedures card out and looking it over before deciding that's just an invitation for Dean to freak out. Instead, he flags down the flight attendant and asks for headphones, subtly elbowing Dean when he gets too obvious about trying to look down her blouse as she leans over to unlock their iFlight consoles.

As soon as she moves away to help another passenger, Sam whispers, "You realize she's young enough to be your daughter, right?"

Dean opens his mouth to argue, then looks stricken and slouches further down into his seat, making Sam feel like a complete ass for teasing him in the first place. They sit silently through the pre-recorded flight safety lecture, Dean checking and re-checking that their seatbelts are secure until Sam finally takes his hand, twining their fingers together, and squeezes gently. Dean squeezes back, but he doesn't look away from the OLED screen until the music swells and fades. Eventually Sam gives up and pushes the armrest out of the way to better accommodate the way Dean insists on sprawling against him.

Takeoff is about as smooth as it gets, but there's a point where Sam swears he can feel the bones in his hand grinding together in Dean's deathgrip. He breathes through the pain, glad that it's his left instead of his right, and Dean eases up not long after they feel the landing gear retract. Once the plane levels off, he lets go of Sam's hand entirely and Sam surreptitiously flexes his fingers until he's sure nothing's actually broken.

While Dean's ordering them both beers, Sam skims through the movie offerings and picks a cheesy comedy with near-softcore levels of nudity, figuring that'll keep Dean entertained, but Dean switches to music as soon as he's handed Sam's drink over. Sam opts for silence, reclining his seat enough that he can stretch out a little and closing his eyes, hand resting lightly on Dean's thigh. He doesn't even protest Dean snaking his beer and drinking it when his own is gone.

The first-class cabin is quiet and dimly lit, most of the other passengers obviously taking the opportunity to sleep away the eight-hour flight in a bid to avoid jet lag. Sam would love to doze too, but he can still feel tension radiating off his brother. Leaning closer, Dean murmurs, "You think we could get away with joining the Mile High Club?" and that wakes Sam right the hell up, because even after all these years Dean's bedroom voice can take him from zero to achingly hard with no stops in between.

He's still trying to put together a coherent sentence when Dean's hand lands, warm and heavy, on his inner thigh and starts moving intently upward. "Dean!" he hisses, and steers Dean firmly away from his dick. "Yeah, that's not obvious: two six-foot-plus guys trying to wedge themselves into a single airplane bathroom." There's only so far he's willing to go in the name of distracting Dean from the fact that they're flying.

Dean edges impossibly closer, his body pressed up against Sam's side, and whispers, "Don't be so unimaginative, Sammy. We get a blanket from the stewardess and I can totally jerk you off without anyone knowing."

"No." Sam tries to sound firm, but it comes out more pleading than anything else.

"Of course," Dean says thoughtfully, his voice still soft and low, "it's always possible someone will notice. People all around us, probably asleep—" Sam shivers, kind of hating that Dean knows him well enough to be able to do this to him, but kind of loving it, too. "—but maybe that woman over there is just resting her eyes or something. Maybe the guy behind us will hear you moan when I wrap my hand around your dick."

Sam doesn't moan at that. He _doesn't_. But it's close, and he fights to keep his breathing even and calm while his heart pounds. Dean's touch is light now, his fingers just ghosting along Sam's inseam, and there's not even the thin excuse of a blanket to hide what he's doing. Sam doesn't stop him, though, just closes his eyes and listens to the fantasy Dean's spinning, trusts that Dean won't really let them get caught.

"Maybe the stewardess will come by to ask if we want more beers—" Dean flattens his palm against Sam's fly, the too-gentle pressure against Sam's erection not nearly enough. "—and she'll see you all wound up like this—" Sam pulls in one shuddering breath and then another, Dean's words hot against his skin. "—your face all flushed and your bottom lip swollen from where you've been biting it, trying not to make any noise."

Dean presses down with the heel of his hand and Sam arches up against him. "Maybe she's standing here right now, Sammy, watching—"

[ ]

Sam's hips jerk hard, Dean's hand unyielding against him, and he comes with a gasp.

"Jesus." Dean breathes the word against Sam's mouth, turning it into a fierce kiss.

Reluctantly, Sam pulls back. "One of these days," he says, knowing he still sounds a little breathless but not really caring, "I'm going to kill you. If you don't kill me first with this kind of shit." Dean just grins at him, and for the first time since the cab dropped them off at the airport he looks relaxed, which means Sam can't even bring himself to be honestly angry.

Sam unbuckles and steps over Dean's legs and into the aisle, ignoring his smug "you know you love it" as he heads for the lavatory. It takes him a couple of minutes to get cleaned up, and as long as he's there he goes ahead and takes a piss. The wet spot on the front of his jeans is minimal; his shirttail covers it pretty well and it should be dry by the time they land. Dry and stuff and itchy. Once they're back on the ground, he's totally going to find a way to make Dean pay.

Dean's working on a new beer by the time Sam gets back, and while he's not smiling anymore he's also not the vibrating ball of tension he was earlier. Sam settles into his own seat, then steals the bottle right out of Dean's hand as he's lifting it to his mouth. He takes a couple of long swallows and tries not to laugh at the way Dean's eyes widen disbelievingly, waiting until Dean actually opens his mouth to complain before handing it back and stretching out again.

A nap apparently isn't in the cards, though, because out of nowhere Dean says, "D'you think they'll start a family right away? Have kids?"

Sam shrugs. He has no idea what Angela and Trent have planned for their future. Dean's the one who spent hours on the phone with Angela after the invitation came; Sam's just [the step-father (do I want to reveal this here, or wait until Angela calls Dean 'Daddy'?), which he's mostly okay with because if he had to pick between that and ]

[ ]

"Daddy!" Angela throws her arms around Dean's neck and his hug lifts her off her feet. She's tiny, a delicate blonde doll who barely comes up to Dean's shoulder, but Sam knows better than to underestimate her just because of her size. She's not a woman to be messed with.

When she finally lets go, Dean holds her at arm's length and looks her up and down. "You look beautiful, Angie. Just like your mom." Beth, who's standing a short distance away, raises her eyebrow at that, but Sam's pretty sure she recognizes that Dean's just calling it like he sees it. Dean's not above flattery and bullshit when he wants something, but he's also free with honest compliments.

[ ]

[wedding // Dean walking her down the aisle ]


	8. ( the Sam/Dean one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Sam/Dean one (plus a little gratuitous het) I couldn't get to gel

Dean leaned as far back as he could in the passenger seat of the Impala, and the hot little blonde number—Tania? Tina?—straddled his lap, hitching her short skirt even higher up her smooth, tanned thighs until he caught a surprising flash of color decorating the outside of her hip. He hadn't figured her for the kind of girl who'd have a tattoo. Of course, nowadays people's _moms_ had tattoos, so you never could tell.

He cupped her ass and tugged her closer, settling her just right over his fly and arching his hips to grind against her. Her lip gloss tasted like peaches, and he could smell her, hot and musky and ready to be fucked. Leaving one hand under her ass, fingertips just barely slipping beneath the edge of her silky panties, he used the other to tug down the front of her low-cut top. It didn't take much to expose first one sweet pink nipple and then the other, and he sucked each one into his mouth in turn, biting gently and then tracing his tongue over the pebbled flesh as she moaned.

He was reaching to undo his jeans when his phone rang, the vibration getting him in the balls and making him gasp. "Shit," he ground out, shoving his hand under her and working his fingers into his pocket. "I gotta get that."

She looked at him like he was nuts, which, yeah. But it was probably Sam, and they were technically on a hunt, even if nothing was actually supposed to be happening tonight. He flipped the phone open. "Dude, you better be dying." The second the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to kick himself, but Sam didn't even seem to notice.

"Not quite," Sam said, and he sounded breathless. "At least not yet."

There was a crash in the background and Dean tensed, the phone cutting into his fingers where he gripped it tight. He shifted it into his other hand, then started fishing in his pocket again for his keys. Tricia made an offended noise; Dean ignored her. "Where are you?"

"The frat house. Casey called me, freaking out." More crashes. "Sampson's spirit is here and it's going kinda nuts, man. I could really use your help."

"Sure thing, Sammy. Be there in five." He snapped the phone shut and looked at Traci, who was glaring at him, eyes narrowed. "I really hate to do this," he told her, and was that ever the truth, because he was hard enough to pound nails and he'd been looking forward to sliding balls-deep into her since she'd smiled at him in the bar, "but my brother's in trouble. Those, uh, bail-jumping bikers we were looking for? Yeah, well, _they_ found _him_ , so I gotta go rescue him."

He pushed open the passenger door and tried not to watch her tug her top back into place. Her face was flushed as she hissed, "You are an unbelievable asshole, you know that?"

"Sorry, sweetheart," he said, trying to help her untangle herself enough that she could get out of the car. He didn't let go until he was sure she had her feet under her. "It's an emergency." His dick throbbed in time with his heartbeat, distracting him. "Maybe once I get this shit taken care of...?" he started, and he was only half surprised by the stinging slap that snapped his head to the side. "Or not."

"It'd serve you right if no woman ever touched you again. Fuck you." She stepped back from the car and made an unfamiliar gesture that he could only assume was intended to be rude. He pulled the door shut and scooted across into the driver's seat. "And fuck your brother, too," she shouted at him as he started the engine. He glanced in the rearview mirror, watched her adjust her skirt before she spun on her heel and stormed back toward the bar. He was still painfully hard.

Hell. He was going to kill Sam himself, when this was over.

* * *

Sam's head ached from the impact with a couple of different walls, and he had a gash in his right bicep where he hadn't dodged fast enough when things had started flying, but the spirit had been easy enough to take care of once Dean had showed up with all their gear, crashing through the front door of the frat house like Rambo or something. The image that thought evoked—Dean all done up like Sylvester Stallone, complete with camo face paint and headband—made him snicker, and Dean glared over at him from the driver's seat.

He bit the inside of his cheek and stared out the window at where the glow of sunrise was just appearing over the hills to the east, knowing that the urge to laugh was just part of coming down from the adrenaline high. Next to him, Dean made an irritated noise and shifted in his seat, and Sam looked back just in time to see him adjust the obvious bulge in the front of his jeans.

"Problem?" The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He glanced away, trying to ignore the way his own dick twitched at the thought of Dean, hard. It wasn't the first time, and he seriously doubted it'd be the last. He'd become pretty good at distracting himself over the years.

Dean snorted softly and shifted again. "You could say that. I was just about to close the deal when your babysitting gig went south. And this girl was prime, Grade A—"

"Jesus," Sam interrupted before Dean could get going on a disturbingly detailed catalog of his almost-conquest's assets. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Yeah, well, you should be." Dean adjusted himself again. "I'm dying of blue balls over here."

The whole guilt-trip thing had gotten old within a week, and now he only let Dean get away with it one time in ten, if that. Still, that was no excuse for snapping, "I said I'm sorry, Dean. What the hell do you want me to do about it?"

The instant the words were out of his mouth, Sam wished he could take them back, but Dean's only visible reaction was to close his eyes briefly, the knuckles of his right hand going white on the steering wheel and his left clenching into a fist in his lap. It took a second for Sam to realize Dean wasn't angry, and another to replay his own words in his head and reinterpret them through the lens of Dean's "problem," but once Sam figured it out, his own arousal became almost impossible to ignore.

Dean shifted in his seat again and Sam gave up even trying. "What do you want me to do about it?" he said again, his voice coming out low and quieter than he'd intended. When Dean shot a quick look his way, Sam met his gaze and held it, looking for any sign of an impending freak-out, but all he saw was a hint of tired confusion in wide green eyes gone dark with arousal, so he pushed a little. "You need a hand, maybe?"

[ ]

"My mouth? Tell me you want me to suck you off, and I will."

Dean's eyes fluttered shut again, and now Sam was sure he was reading the signs right. "Tell me, Dean. Tell me what you want."

[ ]

[Sam sat back, taking a second to just drink in the way Dean looked, flushed and sweaty and debauched, slouched against the driver's door with one arm thrown over the seatback and the opposite hand braced on the dashboard. ]

[insert porn here]

[NOTES:

The left eye reflects fluid, feminine, lunar energy, and rules intuition and magick.]

I was kind of thinking that the x and the first making out are totally unrelated in reality. And then every time x happens, Dean kind of...expects the making out to happen again. And Sam doesn't disappoint him, because he wants it. I'm not sure if Sam is going to know that Dean thinks it's all because of x. Eventually he'll figure it out, at least. But Dean's really deep in denial. ]


	9. ( the Sam/Dean one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Sam/Dean one where they're not really brothers

[NOTES:

Sam and Dean living as lovers, because it's easier to hide the brothers thing than the lovers thing. Sam's got a child by Sarah, who dies and leaves instructions in her will to contact him re: custody of the child. Her ex-boyfriend claims to be the father, and he and Sam each undergo a paternity test to determine which of them is actually the father. Result: Sam. After a while, her ex-bf does some digging and finds circumstantial evidence that leads him to believe Sam and "[Dean's assumed name]" are brothers. He sneaks a sample of Dean's DNA for proof, gloating about it to Sam once he's sent it off for testing. Sam and Dean have a panicked conversation, talking through their options -- giving in or going on the run with the kid (and whether or not it's fair to raise a kid like they were raised) -- and then the results come back with no alleles in common. Sam and Dean aren't brothers after all. Then they have to deal with the fallout of *that*.]


	10. ( the Sam/Dean one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Sam/Dean one that started life as an experiment in tagless dialogue; I started to flesh it out as a complete story, but never finished

"What're you doing?"

Sam doesn't even bother to look up from Bejeweled 2. He's been feeling Dean's eyes on him every few minutes for the last twenty miles or so, but he's promised himself he's not going to let his brother get to him this afternoon, no matter what. "Playing a game on my phone." He can almost hear Dean's raised eyebrow at that. "It relaxes me and helps me think."

There's blessed silence for another minute, then Dean says, "You know what relaxes me and helps me think? A good blowjob."

Dean's eyes are on the road when Sam looks up at him in surprise, but there's a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "And you're telling me this why?" So much for not letting Dean get to him.

The smile gets a little more pronounced. "We were having a moment. Sharing and shit."

Sam carefully unclenches his jaw, turns his attention back to his phone. "In this case, Dean? Caring is _not_ sharing. Caring is refraining from sharing. Please." Surprisingly, Dean doesn't say anything else, but his words still nag at Sam, one thought distracting him to the point that he fails to make an exploding jewel when he has the opportunity and instead ends up losing the game by running out of moves. Annoyed, he snaps the phone shut and stuffs it in his pocket. "Besides," he says, crossing his arms and slouching down in the seat, "it's not like there's such a thing as a _bad_ blowjob."

"I thought we weren't sharing," Dean says. "You were kinda emphatic about that."

"I just— A blowjob is, by definition, a good thing." Sam's not even sure why he's arguing this, especially with his brother who, if sex were an Olympic sport, would obviously be the guy that even the East German judges gave perfect tens to. Not that Sam's spent a lot of time thinking about Dean and sex or anything.

Dean snorts softly, and Sam tenses, knowing Dean's baiting him but having a hard time resisting anyway. He really shouldn't get into it; the odds of this turning into something where Dean mocks him for his inexperience—compared to Dean, anyway—are pretty high. Problem is, he's curious now, and he's never been very good at keeping his mouth shut when Dean gets like this. Finally he shakes his head and says, "I give up. Enlighten me. What makes for a bad blowjob?"

"Teeth," Dean answers without hesitation, a visible shudder running through him, and Sam can feel the flush creeping up his neck and onto his face at the visceral sense-memory the word evokes. Dean darts a sideways glance at him, his expression speculative, and Sam gives up any hope that the conversation isn't going to get a whole lot more uncomfortable. He could kick himself for not dropping the subject when he had the chance. "Unless you get off on that kind of thing," Dean continues, with a leer. "Naughty, Sammy, very naughty."

Sam stares resolutely through the windshield, watching the road blur as the Impala eats up the miles, and trying not to think about blowjobs or the spine-arching scrape of teeth on his dick. The last thing he wants is to talk about sex with his tomcat of an older brother, because it's only a matter of time before Dean says something like, 'Remember that hot blonde nurse?' or 'One time with these twins in Duluth...' or 'There was this mother/daughter calf-roping team in Omaha...' and those are the moments that go straight to Sam's dick, leaving him hard and frustrated and wishing like hell that what he wanted wasn't so fucked up. "We're done sharing, Dean."

Unsurprisingly, Dean ignores him and keeps going. "So, is it just biting that gets you going, or do you like _all_ the rough stuff? Handcuffs? 'Chips, dips, chains, whips'?"

"Dude," Sam says, surprised out of his silence. "You did _not_ just quote _Weird Science_ at me."

Dean smirks. "You know, I'm not really into the whole pain thing, but for her? I'd go a couple rounds with a cat o' nine tails. I mean, _damn_. She's got perfect blowjob lips."

Sam tries again: "We are not having this conversation."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Sammy." Dean's grinning at him again, obviously enjoying his discomfort. "I just confessed to jerking off to fantasies of Kelly LeBrock's mouth since I was eleven. Your turn. Spill."

 _Jesus._ Sam bites back the urge to say 'Eleven?!' because he really doesn't want ( _shouldn't_ want) more details on his brother's outrageous sex life. Instead, he tries to think back to when he discovered jerking off, but he's having trouble pinning it down. Moberly, Missouri, he thinks, which was the second half of seventh grade, so he'd been thirteen. A flash of memory brings him the image of Miss Bradley, his curvy blonde homeroom teacher, and then he's hit with the embarrassing awareness that he still responds to thoughts of her the same way he did back then. He clears his throat and Dean shoots him a quick sideways look that's laced with amusement.

"You all right there?" Dean asks, the look turning speculative.

Sam shifts a little in his seat, resisting the urge to adjust himself in his jeans because he knows exactly what kind of reaction that'd get. "I'm fine."

Dean keeps looking at him for another couple of seconds, until Sam's just about ready to tell him to get his eyes back on the road before he kills them both, and then he nods like he's come to some kind of conclusion and says, "So 'fess up. Feathers or chickens? Kinky or perverted?"

Shaking his head, Sam stays silent, arms crossed and attention turned firmly to the view through the windshield. He's been able to out-stubborn Dean in the past, when it comes to things that he wants bad enough, and he wants this pretty bad.

The silence stretches for a few more seconds, and then Dean laughs. "Chicken, then. As in, you are one."

Sam is fine up until Dean starts making the clucking noises, and then he snaps, the words pouring out before he even knows he's going to speak. "Fine," he says. "You want to know what I think? I think Kelly LeBrock doesn't have perfect blowjob lips. Sure, she's in the top ten, maybe, along with Angelina Jolie, but perfect blowjob lips?" There's a split second where Sam very carefully _doesn't think_ , and then he finishes: "Johnny Depp."

He's not sure what he's waiting for—the end of the world, maybe, or some sign of a freak-out from Dean at the very least—but what he gets is nothing. The sun keeps shining, the birds presumably keep singing, and the Impala rolls smoothly on to the accompaniment of Metallica.

After a few seconds that seems like forever, Dean says, "Huh," and Sam's heart starts beating again. "He is awful pretty, I guess," Dean continues, "but what about that guy from the new _Star Wars_ movies?"

This time it's definitely a stunned silence as Sam runs the words back in his head to make sure he heard what he thought he heard. "Um." He clears his throat and tries again. "Ewan McGregor?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, not him. The one who played the grown-up Anakin."

"Hayden Christensen?"

"Yeah," Dean says, "that's him."

He's wearing a wicked grin, one Sam knows all too well. Whatever Dean says next, it's going to be something Sam's going to wish he'd never heard. Sam opens his mouth to interrupt, to derail the conversation onto some topic, _any_ topic that doesn't involve his brother and sex, but it's too late.

"That boy's got one hell of a mouth on him. I wouldn't say no to seeing those lips wrapped around my—"

"Jesus, Dean!" It's definitely too late, because now that image is stuck in his head—in widescreen hi-definition—and Sam's never again going to be able to watch Anakin Skywalker succumb to the Dark Side without picturing him on his knees, Dean fucking into his mouth....

Dean looks over, his expression the picture of innocent surprise. "What?" he asks.

"Can we just...not share anymore? Please?" Sam's voice comes out sounding higher than usual, tinged with something that he refuses to acknowledge as desperation.

For a few minutes it seems like Dean's taken pity on him, the only sounds in the car a combination of road noise and James Hetfield's crooning about how nothing else matters. Sam shifts a little to get more comfortable, the pressure in his jeans from the hard-on he's been sporting for the last fifteen miles finally starting to ease. The music fades away, leaving an almost-comfortable silence.

He knows better than to get complacent, can't count the number of times his life—or Dean's or Dad's—has been saved by ["constant vigilance"/alertness/not letting guard down]. What he forgot, though, is that evil isn't limited to the nighttime, the darkness, or the supernatural; sometimes it's your brother, sitting right beside you and flashing a blinding grin that crinkles up the corners of his eyes and saying, "I've been told I have a very attractive mouth."

Just like that, Sam's jeans are too tight again. He moves his left arm little to camouflage his problem and stares out the side window, trying very hard not to think about Dean's mouth. Especially not in conjunction with his own dick.

He's pretty sure Dean's blissfully unaware of the effect his words are having.

"If, you know, you're into that kind of thing."

Or maybe not.

"Which it kind of sounds like you are," Dean continues, the words dropping like land mines into the empty space between them.

"Dean?" Sam looks over. Dean's eyes are on the road, but he's smirking.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"I swear to God, they will never find your body if you don't shut up right the fuck now." Sam even kind of means it.

[ ] then a click and hiss as the tape flips over in the tape deck and starts on the other side.

*chuckle* "You sound a little uptight there, bro. You really should relax, get laid, work out some of that tension."

There's no way Dean can possibly be suggesting what it sounds like he's suggesting; he's got to be fucking with Sam. As brotherly practical jokes go, it'd be a winner if only it wasn't hitting quite so close to home. The best thing would be for Sam to go with it, play into the joke and then play it off like it means nothing. He knows that.

He's just not sure he can actually do it.

*shifting*

*startled intake of breath*

"Gee, Dean, you feel a little tense. Maybe you're not getting laid often enough yourself?"

*swallow* "You might be right about that."

"Sounds like you could use something to relax you and help you think."

[stops being a prank? something in Dean's voice that makes Sam wonder if he's really pranking or not]

*rasp of a zipper being undone*

"Jesus."

"Here, move your arm out of the way. And try not to kill us, okay?"

*wet, slick sounds*

"Jesus _Christ_."

*muffled laughter*

*fingernails on denim*

*damp, rhythmic noises*

"Oh, yeah, that's perfect. Just like that." *shuddering breaths* "Fuck, you're good. Don't stop. God, don't stop."

*rustling*

*sound of another zipper*

*whisper of skin on skin*

"Dude, are you...?" *ragged moans* "Oh, fuck, I'm gonna—"

*pleased hum*

*shifting away*

"Better?"

"Yeah." *pause* "I think there's a motel at the next exit."

*skin on skin, louder now* "Is that a fact?"

"Uh huh. And it's getting kind of late."

*breathless* "I'm good. I can drive while you sleep, if you want."

"What I want is to get a room at that motel, strip you naked, handcuff you to the bed, and suck your dick until you beg me to let you come."

*strangled moan*

"Looks like I was right. You are a little kinky."

*huff of laughter* "Fuck you."

"Dude! Don't get jizz on the upholstery, man. Not cool."

"Isn't that our exit?"

"I see it, I see it. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"And by the way, Dean? I lied. Johnny Depp may be pretty, but _you_ have perfect blowjob lips."


	11. ( the Sam/Dean one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Sam/Dean that's a sequel to a couple of (gen and het) stories by ZoeRayne

If Sam thought Dean's obsession with the vibrating bed was disturbing before, that's nothing compared to what he thinks of it now, after opening the motel door to find Dean lying on his stomach, hands tight on the top edge of the mattress and legs slightly spread. For a second Sam can't even move, can only take in the arch and flex of Dean's muscles under his tee-shirt, the curve of his denim-clad ass shifting as he thrusts down, grinding himself against the bed. Sam's ears are filled with the rumble of the Magic Fingers, and the sound of Dean's low, uninhibited moans, of his groaned, "Oh, yeah, baby. Harder. Give it to me," and suddenly moving is the least of Sam's worries, because he can't breathe, either.

Stepping back into the light snowfall, he pulls the door quietly closed and tries not to hyperventilate. Holy crap. That was...more than he'd ever wanted to know about his brother's sexual activities. A flash of irrational anger sets his heart pounding; it's just like Dean to put him in this position, to make him privy to a secret that Sam can't admit to knowing.

A brisk walk around the snowy courtyard cools the anger, though. It's not really Dean's fault, and Sam gets that. They're practically living in each other's pockets twenty-four seven, and Sam's known for years the kind of sex drive Dean's got. He's actually kind of surprised that he's never walked in on Dean before now.

Grabbing the snow brush from the trunk, he sets out to clear the thick, powdery accumulation from the Impala; it's mindless work, giving him too much time to think, but it's better than any other alternative he can come up with. Once past the initial shock, it's Dean's words he's having the most trouble with. He turns them over in his mind, trying to fit them into a scenario that makes sense when coupled with his existing assumptions, but he can't.

Dean was fantasizing about getting fucked.

Whether it's just an unfulfilled fantasy, or a reenactment of an actual event, Sam doesn't know, but either way it completely screws with everything he thinks he knows about his brother. Because Dean is _straight_. As the proverbial box of rulers.

Unless he isn't. Unless he's been keeping that side of his sexuality from Sam for some reason. Which makes sense, actually, even if Sam has to fight a brief flash of indignation at Dean keeping secrets from him, because Sam hasn't exactly been honest with Dean on that front, either. He resolves to change that, figuring maybe he can get Dean to open up to him in the process.

Tapping the worst of the snow from the brush, he tosses it back into the Impala's trunk before heading for the room.

A week later they're in Denver, waiting at Starbucks for Sam's four-shot vanilla latte, Dean already halfway through his black coffee and making faces at Sam's "girly ass drink choices," when Sam notices two cute girls sitting at a corner table. They're giggling and leaning into each other's space, and then the brunette feeds the blonde a bite from her coffee cake before kissing her on the tip of her nose.

Sam nudges Dean and nods in their direction with a grin. Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam can see the instant it clicks with him. "Nice," Dean says, drawing the single syllable out—and completely missing the point.

Later that evening they're in a nightclub, trying to subtly get info on a missing college student. As usual, Dean is paying more attention to the scantily clad patrons than to the bartender he's supposed to be questioning. When Sam elbows him in the ribs, Dean shoots him a "what?!" look, but goes back to the job at hand. In the end, they decide that it's not really their kind of gig after all; from everything they can tell, the guy just ran off with his boyfriend to spite his parents, who disapproved of his lifestyle.

"It's kind of romantic," Sam says with a quick glance over at Dean. "Kind of _Romeo and Juliet_ , you know?"

Dean snorts. "More like Romeo and Julian." He nods in the direction of a voluptuous blonde who's sitting further down the bar, and says, "I'm gonna get back to Kristen." He pauses. "You know, she's got a friend...."

Sam ignores the meaningfully raised eyebrows, chooses his words carefully. "Nah," he says. "You go on. I'm going to hang out here, maybe play some pool with Ricky once he's off. I'll see you in the morning."

Dean looks like he wants to say something—several somethings, even—and Sam waits for him to draw the obvious conclusion about Sam's interest in the hot, gay bartender, but if he does, he doesn't voice the thought. Instead, he shrugs and says, "Your loss is my threesome, Sammy," and slides off his barstool.

Once Dean's gone, Sam does continue his conversation with Ricky, but doesn't do more than a little light flirting; the guy may be hot, but he's also far too superficial to really hold Sam's attention. Sam sticks around until the bar closes, though, to give Dean time to wonder, but when he stumbles tiredly through the motel door at two in the morning, trying to stifle a yawn, he realizes Dean's been far too busy to wonder about what Sam's been up to.

Dean, Kristen, and Kristen's unnamed friend are spread out over Dean's bed, a tangle of limbs that Sam's gaze slides quickly over without taking in the details. There's a shuddering hesitation in the rhythmic movements on the bed, and Sam keeps walking, saying, "Don't mind me. I'm going to hit the shower and then crash."

Sam doesn't really need to shower—or at least he didn't before he walked in on an _orgy_ in his motel room—but he figures it'll help with the impression he's trying to give. Standing under the cool water, though, he's kind of wishing he'd actually hooked up with Ricky; at least then he wouldn't be hard and considering jerking off to the accompaniment of the porn soundtrack in the next room.

He leans his forehead against the tiles and reaches to turn the hot water down more, but even that doesn't put a dent in his libido. With a whispered string of bitter swear words, he gives in, turning the hot water up to full and wrapping one hand around his insistent erection. It doesn't take long, but just before he hits the point of no return, the bathroom door opens and he freezes, heart pounding like he's fourteen years old again and Dad has come home early. He barely breathes as he watches Dean's outline through the translucent shower curtain.

"So Ricky didn't put out, huh?" Dean says, moving to stand in front of the toilet, and Sam can hear him taking a leak. Sam pushes down the urge to smack the smug out of Dean's voice, because they're finally getting somewhere and physical violence at this point would be counterproductive. "Too bad," Dean continues. "You could've had Shawna. Shayna? Whatever. Anyway, she's a gymnast. Extremely flexible, if you know what I mean—"

Or maybe physical violence is exactly what's called for.

One thing's for sure: Dean's presence in the bathroom has accomplished what cold water couldn't. Sam sighs and turns off the shower. "Shut up and hand me a towel."

~ * ~ * ~

For all that Dean is into sharing—often to the point of TMI, as far as Sam's concerned—his every sexual thought about women, he's still oddly silent on the subject of men. Sam's not sure why Dean's still holding back, but he's more determined than ever to get Dean to confide in him.

The next time they're spending some of their rare downtime in a bar, Dean starting in with what Sam knows will be a long and loving catalog of the physical attributes of a blonde who's caught his eye, Sam picks out a roughly equivalent guy and nods in his direction.

"The guy at the end of the bar—black jeans and maroon shirt? Not too bad, huh?" he says, keeping his voice low.

Dean glances in the guy's direction, then back at Sam. "This ain't exactly that kind of bar." He takes a drink of his beer and shrugs. "Hell, go for it, if that's what you want. Just don't expect me to wade in if he takes a swing at you."

"He's not really my type," Sam says, frustrated with Dean's nonchalance. "I was just—" He cuts himself off; he doesn't really have a ready explanation for what he was trying to do. "You know what? Never mind."

Dean sets his empty bottle down on the table and shoots a regretful look in the direction of the blonde. "We can go somewhere else, if you want," and Sam knows that Dean means a gay bar.

It annoys him that Dean's still lying to him, even if only by omission, playing it like he's some kind of martyr, like it's a hardship to skip the blonde bimbo in favor of [hunk?], so Sam says, "I wouldn't want to take you away from Trixie."

[NOTES:

next plan is to encourage Dean to share what he finds attractive in guys the same way he does with girls; the next time Dean's all ga-ga about a girl, Sam points out a hot guy; each time he does it, he chooses a different type, hoping Dean will cop to it when Sam hits his type]


	12. ( the Sam/Dean one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Sam/Dean one that makes me ache whenever I think about it

_The motel room looks like any one of the hundreds of dives they've stayed in over the last few years, with cheap paneling on the walls and thin polyester bedspreads in shades of rust and brown that match the ratty shag carpet. Sam's there but he's not **there** , feeling not exactly like a ghost but not exactly corporeal either, and he's trying to work that one out when he realizes that Dean is there as well._

 _Dean is standing at the foot of the bed closest the door, his head bowed and his breathing steady, but Sam can see through the façade of calm to the tension underneath, can read apprehension in the set of his shoulders and the line of his neck. Dean's wearing nothing but a thin gray tee-shirt and black boxer-briefs, and he looks far younger than his twenty-nine years, as though he's been stripped of confidence as well as clothes. Something in Sam's gut clenches at the vulnerability of his brother's bare feet and unguarded expression, and he aches to step forward, to try to soothe and comfort like Dean has always done for him._

 _Sam can't move, though—or rather, there's nothing **to** move, because he's as insubstantial as the air. All he can do is watch as Dean's gaze snaps up to the door, eyes widening in fear, and Sam sees the faintest trembling in his hands before Dean clenches them into fists at his sides. There's a millisecond and an eternity between Sam's stunned realization—this is it, the moment that's been bearing inexorably down on them for the last year—and Dean [collapsing to the floor like a marionette whose strings have been cut, eyes still wide but now glassy and unseeing.]_ [[Fabulous imagery...if only you hadn't just plagiarized it from yourself for Achilles. Doh! -Montana Harper 3/27/08 7:23 PM ]]

 _ **No!** It's not the shout he intends, though, because Sam has no lungs and no breath and no mouth. He has nothing._

Sam wakes with a gasp, feeling like he's drowning, like there'll never again be enough air to fill his lungs. He's sweating despite the chill in the air, and the sheets are tangled damply around his hips and legs.

"Sammy?" It's a sleepy mumble from off to his right, from Dean's bed, and suddenly the air seems to come flooding back into the room.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Sam says, "Just a dream. Go back to sleep, Dean."

"Not—" He can hear Dean yawn and stretch, the normally soft sounds disproportionately loud in the silent darkness. "Not one of _those_ dreams?"

"No." Sam's pretty sure he's lying, by omission if nothing else. It wasn't a vision, or at least it didn't give him a splitting headache, and everything about it—from the texture to the color to the sense of time unfolding as he watched—was different from the familiar wrench of the visions. Still, it felt prophetic. Of course, it could also just be his subconscious's way of pointing out that they're nearly out of time, as if his conscious wasn't already painfully aware of that.

He takes a deep breath and rolls over to face the other bed, staring into the gloom until he can make out the darker shape of Dean stretched out on his back, his quiet half-snores more reassuring than annoying for once. Still, Sam can't seem to relax enough to get back to sleep, his mind constantly circling back to a replay of his dream no matter what else he tries to focus on.

It's too early to go to the library, but he can't lie there and stare at the water-stained ceiling for one second longer so he showers and dresses, leaves a note for Dean, and heads down to the local coffee shop with his laptop. He's only halfway there, walking past the dozens of tiny storefronts that line the town's main drag, when a woman steps out of a doorway to stand in front of him and he has to stop short or run into her. She's tall, close to his own height, with eyes the color of sage leaves and [a cafe au lait complexion]; she'd be supermodel material if not for the pockmarks scattered across the broad planes of her cheeks.

"You're looking for answers," she says, and it's not a question. Sam stares after her as she turns and steps through a doorway into one of the tiny shops. He glances up at the sign over the door, which proclaims her a PSYCHIC in crooked purple and white letters, then pushes his way through the dusty red velvet curtains and into a surprisingly well-lit interior.

She's waiting for him inside, standing next to a simple, rustic wooden table that's flanked by two matching chairs. The corners of her generous mouth quirk up, and she says, "Sit, Sam Winchester, and let Auntie Caroline tell you what you need to know."

He doesn't want to get his hopes up, but he can't help the way her words arrow right to his heart and set it beating faster. Sitting down, he waits silently as she takes the seat across from him. He knows better than to volunteer any information; real psychics are as rare as hen's teeth, and it's too easy to get taken by a fake who's perceptive enough to figure out what you want to hear. The fact that she goes by the name of Auntie Caroline isn't much help, either—it could mean she's the real deal, or just that she's trying to convince people she is.

"You got a lot of doubts for a man who's known the touch of the spirits his own self," she says. Her words are sharp and quick, but her tone is gentle and takes away some of the sting.

A tight laugh pushes its way out of Sam. "It's not the spirits I doubt, Auntie," he says.

[ ]

"There is great power in the four fluids of the body: blood, saliva, sweat, and semen. To save your brother, you must finish what was started. Complete the ritual; bind him to you with the final fluid and Lucifer himself could not take him."

[Sam asserts that it won't work because Dean doesn't want him; Auntie laughs at him]

[ ]

Sam waits as long as he can to put his plan into action, long enough that it really is last-minute desperation that drives him when he comes back to the motel, smelling of whiskey and [acting] all touchy-feely like he knows alcohol makes him.

Dean does what Sam expects, what Dean always does: he takes care of Sam. He's helped Sam with his shoes and is just standing again when Sam makes his move, reaching out with exaggerated sloppiness and grabbing the front of Dean's shirt, tugging him off balance and half onto the bed, half onto Sam.

Before Dean can push himself back up and pull away, Sam says, "Dean," and he doesn't have to try to make it sound broken and needy; if this doesn't work, Dean is going to Hell and Sam's all out of ideas. It _has_ to work.

Dean stops, looking down at him. "Yeah, Sammy?" The quiet affection in his voice makes Sam's chest ache.

"Dean, I want--" Sam breaks off, can feel his face flush because this is harder to say than he expected. Dean's still looking, though, his expression somewhere between concern and exasperation. In the end, Sam just reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of Dean's neck, tugs him down and puts all the desperation he's feeling into a kiss.

[ ]

[NOTES:

It's coming up on the end of Dean's year, and Sam hasn't been able to find *anything* that could save Dean, and Dean himself won't help, won't talk about it, and went so far as to sabotage Sam the first couple of times Sam let him know he was even trying to break the deal.

The next night, Sam has the same dream again.

The day after that, they're walking down the street when a woman steps out of a doorway and takes Sam's hand. She pulls him after her into the little storefront she'd come out of--a dark little place filled with velvet curtains and incense smoke, with a sign over the door proclaiming PSYCHIC--and tells him that she's seen him in a vision, that she knows what he needs.

She tells him that she knows how he can save Dean, and he freezes.

When she tells him, though, that he needs to claim Dean for his own (a process that's been started by some kind of "offer" by Dean in the past, but needs to be finalized by ritual now), he balks, calling her crazy.

She mentions the power of the number nine in hoodoo, broken into four and three and two:  
four bodily fluids - blood and saliva and semen and sweat  
three aspects of the natural world - bone and herb (basil, cardamom, rosemary?) and metal  
two symbols - photo? something of Sam's? his bracelet? and Dean's necklace (which started the whole thing)  
When he's completed the spell, the spell items that were not consumed should be buried "in their yard" to seal the job. Sam ends up tying them into a paper packet and putting them in the bottom of the Impala's trunk.

She tells him that the dreams he's been having are prophetic, that unless he does something, that's what's going to happen to Dean in under a month.

Sam shakes his head and leaves, trying to convince himself that she's crazy.

But he has the dream again that night.

And when he goes back to talk to her in the morning, there's nothing there. The storefront is boarded up, and has obviously been so for years.

So he decides he's going to follow her advice, because it can't hurt and there's nothing else he can do. He's not sure whether he needs Dean's semen or vice versa, so he figures he'd better make sure both happen, just to be safe.

[http://www.luckymojo.com/hoodoo.html

Research: SEMEN

Men can make use of their sexual fluids in love spells. Josh Geller gave this simple formula for an orgasmic spell utilizing semen:

Masturbate to orgasm and preserve the resultant fluids. You should be concentrating on your desired result at the point of orgasm. Take some of the resultant fluids and insinuate a bit of them into the food or drink of your prospective victim.

For every man who uses his semen to attract a woman, however, there are probably a hundred women who capture a man's semen to rule and control him or to keep him faithful. The most popular way to do this in hoodoo is by making a knot-spell on the man and keeping it tied up in a nation sack. For this purpose, the semen can be fresh or gathered from a discarded condom -- or even stored in the freezer until needed. Most of the rootworkers who have told me about how to capture semen have noted that it is important that the woman not have an orgasm when capturing semen, because then she might get "mixed up in the spell," and fall victim to her own conjurations. "Hold yourself aloof," was how one woman put it to me. "Don't let yourself get mixed into it when you collect his stuff." ]

He sets about trying to seduce Dean, but trying to take it slowly so that Dean doesn't freak. He makes his first couple of tentative moves, kind of feeling Dean out about the whole thing, but then he starts to feel like an idiot and he stops.

That night his dream changes. Not much, but enough that he knows he's having some kind of impact on the future. If the crazy nonexistent psychic woman is to be believed, at least.

So he pushes the issue, setting up an honest-to-God seduction, with wine and candles and basically telling Dean--a lie, but he doesn't care if it'll save Dean's life--that he's always wanted this and that he wants to act on it before Dean's gone and he's lost his opportunity.

Dean's resistant at first, walking out on Sam and not coming back until the next morning, but in the meantime Sam's dream has changed again, and again in the right direction.

So when Dean comes back in the morning, Sam corners him, *begs* him, and Dean finally breaks.

He's always wanted Sam, but never let himself think about it because, well, WRONG.

And Sam has to deal with the issue of not being at all turned on by the situation, but not letting Dean see that, because he knows it would totally wreck Dean if he thought Sam was sleeping with him for any reason other than because he really wanted to.

And the one-year anniversary of Dean's deal with the demon comes and goes, and there's no sign of Hell Hounds.

The demon appears to Sam in his dream that night, telling him that she's done with making deals with Winchesters, that this latest wangling out of a deal is going to cost them dearly in the end, and possibly saying some other stuff that hits home with Sam and that I haven't thought of yet.

And the story ends on Sam and Dean riding off into the sunset, Dean having gotten everything he ever wanted and just *reveling* in having Sam in every way, and Sam biting the bullet and just letting Dean have that because it's better than Dean being dead. Because that's what love means. ]


	13. ( the Sam/Dean one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Sam/Dean one I'd barely started before getting Kripke'd by two episodes in a row

"You know, you don't need an excuse to go to a peepshow, Dean. You're an adult

[ ]

"We're with—" Sam starts, reaching for one of the fake badges, but Dean cuts across him: "We investigate ghosts."

The girl nods like there's nothing strange about that, then steps back and lets them into the dressing room. "I guess you're here about Bettie, then?" she says as she turns to a rack of clothes that line one wall.

"Bettie?"

"Nobody really knows who she is. We've always just called her Bettie. Like Bettie Page, you know?"

[NOTES:

Her real name is Grace, and she used to be a stripper/dancer at the club back in the 1940s. She died at the hands of an obsessed customer, but she's not angry or hostile. The girls who're possessed by her describe the emotions they feel while possessed as satisfaction, power. She's very picky, and won't possess someone if they don't have the right clothing (modest, but not prudish) or if their pubic hair is too racily shaved, for instance.

Marquees -  
"APRIL SHOW-ERS"  
"WE PUT THE SCHWING INTO SPRING"

Large, circular platform in the middle of the room, padded, cushions scattered around on the floor of the room. The platform spins very slowly. No eye contact, gives the impression of voyeurism.]


	14. ( the Sam/Dean one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Sam/Dean one that's a crossover with M7 and that actually has a chart that goes with it

[NOTES:

starts at Bobby's, where he gets a call about weird things happening in northeastern Colorado -- lights in the sky at night, etc. Dean makes a comment about aliens not being their job, and that they should call [Mulder & Scully? more up-to-date pop culture reference?]

Reports of the sky filled with billowing smoke, and the light of a huge fire as night falls, but whenever anyone goes out to investigate in the morning, there's nothing there. The fight with the Nichols family (1868) went differently -- worse -- than it did in the episode, with Ma Nichols getting caught in the crossfire, and the remaining boys going a little mad at her death and setting the town on fire and shooting anyone who tried to leave the burning buildings. In the end, everyone died and the town was razed by fire.

After the fire, Billy Travis turned into a religious zealot, convinced that it was actually the Devil (working through Mr. Wheeler (?)) who'd taken his father, and that his mother had been burned alive (like going to hell) because he'd told, the Devil again doing his dirty work through humans -- this time the Catholic Nichols family. His own children were raised in a crazy, twisted version of Christianity, with added incest for extra special crazy. (see below) In 1906, just after the earthquake, a spiritualist stopped him in the street and told him that he was surrounded by a black aura, and that the spirit world was turbulent in his wake. He took this as a further sign that the Devil was dogging him, for some reason unable to touch him directly but taking away all that he loved, and he started studying the occult.

Will Travis was raised with the full impact of his father's crazy, since his mother died when he was four and his father never remarried. He continued his father's research into the occult after Billy's death (when Will was 17), and passed the obsession along to his only child.

Stephen Travis, spurred by the death of his father and by reading his grandfather's journals about what happened to his great grandparents, heads to the site of the long-gone town of Clearwater, Colorado. He summons the ghost of his great grandmother, Mary Travis, and becomes obsessed with her, becomes obsessed with finding a way to bring her back to life, convinced he's in love with her and that since he's named after his great grandfather, it's meant to be. His meddling re-awakens the entire town, sparking off daily re-creations of its horrific final hours.

Billy Travis (b. 1860 d. 1954 - age 94)

Wife #1 (m. 1877, 17/18) - Elizabeth (b. 1859 d. 1892 - age 33, influenza)

Seven children:  
Oren (b. 1878 d. 1881 - age 3, measels)  
Sarah (b. 1880 d. 1881 - age 1, measels)  
Henry (b. 1883 d. 1890 - age 7, rattlesnake)  
John (b. 1885 d. 1885 - stillborn)  
Alice (b. 1886 d. 1892, age 5, influenza)  
Charles (b. 1890 d. 1906 - age 16, SF earthquake)  
Mary (b. 1891 d. 1906, age 15, SF earthquake)

Wife #2 (m. 1892, 32/26) - Anne (b. 1865 d. 1906 - age 41, SF earthquake)

Five children:  
James (b. 1893 d. 1906, age 13, SF earthquake)  
Matthew (b. 1894 d. 1906, age 12, SF earthquake)  
Edward (b. 1895 d. 1906, age 11, SF earthquake)  
Silence (b. 1896 d. 1906, age 10, SF earthquake)  
Purity (b. 1897 d. 1897, age 6 months, crib death)

Wife #3 (m. 1906, 39/16) - Mary (b. 1891 d. 1920 - age 29, childbirth)

Three children, interspersed with several miscarriages and stillbirths:  
Joseph (b. 1907 d. 1907, age nine months, birth defects)  
Emma (b. 1911 d. 1911, age one month, crib death)  
Helen (b. 1920 d. unk)

Wife #4 (m. 1920, 60/32) - Ida (b. 1888 d. 1936 - age 48, unknown)

No children.

Wife #5 (m. 1937 77/17) - Nell (b. 1920 d. 1941 - age 21, presumed suicide)

One child, followed by several stillbirths/miscarriages:  
William Jr. (b. 1937 d. 2008, age 71, cancer)

Billy never married again.

 

William Jr.

Wife #1 (m. 1959, 22/19) - Rose (b. 1940)

Two children:  
April (b. 1962 d. 1986, age 14, Alpers syndrome)  
Stephen (b. 1969) - living antagonist

 

Setting: Northeastern Colorado, about 15 miles SE of Julesberg. Calling the town Clearwater.

http://www.over-land.com/

Antelope Station  
1860's Stage Station, Weld Co.  
Site now in Sedgwick Co.

Butts Ranch  
1860s Stage Station, Weld Co.  
Site now in Sedgwick Co.

Clearwater  
aka Gillette Station, Gitrells Ranch, Henderson,  
Poverty Ranch Stage Station (on the Overland Trail)  
Est 1859, Nebraska Terr.  
PO 1862-1864, Weld Co.  
Site now in Sedgwick Co.  
(PO moved from/to Julesburg)  
east of Antelope Station in the SE 1/4 NW 1/4 sec. 20, T. 11 N., R. 46 W., Sedgwick County

Denver Junction  
see Julesburg  
Inc 1885, Weld Co.  
Now Julesburg, Sedgwick Co.

Fort Sedgwick  
aka Camp Rankin  
Military Post 1864-1871  
PO 1866-1869, Weld Co.  
Site now in Sedgwick Co.

Military Reserve  
prev Fort Sedgwick Reserve  
On 1871-1885 maps, Weld Co.  
Now in Sedgwick Co.

Riverside Stage Station  
Est 1860, Nebraska Terr  
On 1885 map, Weld Co.  
Site now in Logan Co.

 

Hank Conley comes to town, tells Chris he found and killed the man responsible for Sarah and Adam's death. The Nichols family is from Kansas City. Casey is around in the town.

"That's not my kind of justice; my justice is the apocalypse."

"Don't shoot my maw!"

A/U

She gets shot. The boys redouble their efforts.]


	15. ( the Jensen/Chris one... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Jensen/Chris one that only half belongs to me

Behind him, Jensen hears the squeak of hinges as the screen door opens. "Well, c'mon, then," Chris says. "My jeans ain't gonna take themselves off."

Jensen closes his eyes for a second and lets out the breath he's been holding ever since Chris stood up, guitar in hand, and brushed past his shoulder on the way to the house. Pushing himself to his feet, he follows Chris—and that, at least, is easy and familiar—not bothering to pick up his shirt or his empty.

The raw nerves are still there, the knot in his belly as tight as ever, but it's distant, almost like it's happening to someone else. He's got no bottle to hide behind now, and Chris's eyes are on him, sharp and blue and unreadable, so he keeps going, putting one foot in front of the other until he's inside and standing in the narrow, sweltering hallway. The wood-on-wood _crack_ of the screen door falling shut behind him is weirdly muffled, like the sound of a blank when you're expecting a real gunshot.

And that right there is fucked up, thinking about gunshots right now, like he's going in front of a firing squad or something.

Pushing the thought away, he looks up to see Chris—one shoulder against the wall and bare feet crossed at the ankle—still watching him with an expression that's about as far from nervous as you can get. It's not like Chris doesn't know what he's getting into, Jensen tells himself, not after he made Jensen lay it all out in pornographic detail for him. Hell, it's not even like there's any doubt Chris is into it; Jensen can see from here that Chris is hard, the line of his dick against the front of his 501s emphasizing the perpetually undone second button that's been driving Jensen crazy for months. He reaches out, intending to pull the rest of the buttons free, but Chris catches his wrists, crowds him until he's backed up against the opposite wall, and now he can _feel_ the hard length of Chris's dick digging into his thigh.

Chris looks up at him, his thumbs rubbing lightly at the skin on the inside of Jensen's wrists, and Jensen shivers despite the heat. "You been thinking about this for a while," Chris says, and it's not a question. Jensen nods anyway, and Chris continues, "How long?"

 _Steve grins at him, raises a hand in greeting, and Jensen starts picking his way through the crowd toward the low wooden stage. By the time he gets there, Steve's no longer alone. Jensen recognizes Christian Kane from concert stills, and his first thought is that photos don't really do the guy justice. His second thought involves stripping Chris out of the wifebeater and ratty jeans and riding his dick until neither of them can move, but he ruthlessly squashes the desire down and extends his hand with a grin._

 _"Hey, I'm Jensen. You must be Chris; Steve's told me all about you."_

Jensen licks his lips, watches Chris's eyes track the movement, and says, "Pretty much forever."

Chris nods, like he's decided something or maybe like he's figured something out, and then he lets go of Jensen's wrists. Instead of stepping back, though, which is what Jensen expects, Chris slides his fingers into Jensen's jeans, knuckles pressing low into Jensen's belly as he pops the button open and slides the zipper down. Jensen tenses, sucks in a shaky breath, because _shit_ , this isn't how he figured on things going, and he's not even a little bit prepared for the way it feels when Chris's fingers brush against his dick.

He doesn't think Chris was really prepared for it, either, not with the way his eyes widen at the touch. Chris shoots a quick glance down to where Jensen's dick is curving up and out of his unzipped jeans, and then grins at him. "Freeballing, Jen? You're just chock-full of surprises today."

"That makes—" _two of us_ , he starts to say, but then Chris's fingers wrap around his dick and his voice just _goes_ , his hips stuttering forward as he groans.

Chris leans forward a little, and the hand that's not on Jensen's dick slides around the back of his neck, thumb dragging along the sensitive skin under his ear and turning his breath ragged. He lets himself be pulled into the kiss—his own hands still hanging awkwardly at his sides, because there are reasons why he doesn't do this, reasons why straight guys are absolutely off limits.

Chris pulls back and frowns at him. "If you can still think that hard right now, I'm doing something wrong." Jensen starts to deny it, but Chris talks over him. "So what was next in that fantasy of yours? Cocksucking, right?"

The way Chris says it—low and kind of quiet, but still so matter-of-fact—goes right to Jensen's dick. Jensen licks his lips. "Yeah," he says, and his voice comes out smoky and unfamiliar. He reaches for Chris's jeans again. "Let me—"

"Now, I never done this before," Chris interrupts, "but I got a pretty good idea how it works." Jensen's blinking and trying to parse that sentence when Chris drops to his knees, one hand still wrapped around Jensen's dick and the other spread flat against Jensen's hip, pressing him back into the wall. Chris looks up at him with a slow, lazy smile. "And if you come in my mouth, I swear I will beat the ever-loving shit out of you."

"Fuck," Jensen groans, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thud.

Chris's grin widens. "That's the general idea," he says, then leans forward to suck the head of Jensen's dick into his mouth, and suddenly Jensen can't breathe.

He clenches his hands into fists at his sides to keep himself from tangling his fingers in Chris's hair and probably getting his ass kicked. This isn't going anything like his fantasy, but he figures that expecting it would was gross stupidity on his part; he knows Chris is a control freak, so really, how else could it go? Not that he's complaining—not about the wet heat on his dick or the bruising fingers on his hip—because a blowjob, even an amateurish one, from Christian Kane.... Hell, maybe _especially_ an amateurish one, because it's pretty obvious Chris has never done this before and that's just eleven different kinds of hot.

Hot enough that it pushes Jensen too close to the edge. "Chris," he says, and it's both a warning and a plea, his voice breaking on the single syllable. He makes a note to be embarrassed about that later, once he's not about to stroke out.

Chris pulls off and is on his feet in one smooth motion, the incredibly hot blowjob turning into an equally incredibly hot handjob that leaves Jensen shuddering and panting against Chris's temple as he comes. Chris's movements slow, but he doesn't stop working Jensen's dick until Jensen reaches down and grabs his wrist, drags his hand up to lick the taste of himself from Chris's skin. Chris's eyes darken, his gaze fixed on the intersection of his hand and Jensen's tongue, and Jensen lets his own eyes close as he sucks Chris's fingers like he wants to suck Chris's dick.

"Tempting as that mouth of yours is, Jen," Chris says, sounding honestly regretful as he pulls his hand away, trailing spit-slick fingers over Jensen's lips and chin, "I've kinda been looking forward to fucking that sweet ass." Startled, Jensen opens his eyes to find Chris watching him, his expression giving nothing away. "That all right with you?"

Because he wants to get laid, not laid out, Jensen bites back the automatic sarcasm and nods instead. "Yeah," he says, and then he lets himself be steered into the bedroom, Chris's hand hot against the small of his back.

He's sort of seen Chris mostly naked before, but not in a situation where he could do anything more than risk the occasional quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Now, though, he takes advantage of the opportunity to look, watching as Chris strips off his shirt and jeans. Chris's body is solid, all broad shoulders and narrow hips and muscular thighs, and his dick is solid, too—thick and hard and inviting. He's tan pretty much all over, which Jensen plans to give him shit about later.

When he drags his attention back up to Chris's face, he catches a glimpse of something that might be nerves or uncertainty, but it's gone almost before he can register it. It's a bucket of ice water to his libido, though, shocking him out of his heat- and sex-induced daze, stilling his hands before he can push his own jeans down. He's so close to something he's wanted for years, something he never figured he stood a chance of getting, and it's tempting to just ignore that flicker of...whatever it was. Thing is, no matter how much he wants Chris, Jensen's just not that much of an asshole.

He says, "You've never done this before." It's not a question and they both know it. "Why now?"

Chris shakes his head just a little, his expression fond while still managing to convey pretty clearly that he thinks Jensen's an idiot. "You looked in a mirror lately? You're prettier than the last three girls I done, all put together."

Jensen can feel himself freeze, and he makes an effort to relax, to smile like he hasn't just been sucker-punched. "That says more about your bad taste in women than about me, I think," he says, fastening his jeans again, gaze focused on his hands because his fingers are numb and he doesn't want to end up in the ER with a humiliating zipper-related injury. When he finally looks up, Chris is just watching him, face blank. "You know what, Chris? I think I'm gonna have to pass. That's one hell of a line, though. Bet it works great on drunk groupies."

The screen door slams behind him.

A lifetime of comments about his looks, about his "pretty mouth" from people who wanted to either fuck it or punch him in it—sometimes both—and Jensen is _done_. So fucking over it that he doesn't even have words for how over it he is. And then getting that same shit from Christian _fucking_ Kane.... So. Fucking. Over. It. He grabs his shirt on the way past, kicks his empty out into the yard where it smashes satisfyingly against the back fence, and heads for the side gate. Which is fastened shut with a shiny new padlock.

Son of a fucking bitch.

Chris meets him just inside the back door, jeans on and half buttoned. "C'mon, Jenny, don't be like that," Chris starts, all smiles and charm and butter-wouldn't-melt.

Jensen puts his fist through the drywall beside Chris's head, so focused on the anger that he barely notices the sting of scraped knuckles. Chris blinks and the smile drops away, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't move when Jensen turns and heads for the front door, either.

Jensen's got the chain off and the deadbolt unlocked when Chris says, "Jensen," and it's quiet, serious like Jensen's almost never heard him sound. Jensen stops, hand on the doorknob and silently cursing himself for a dozen different kinds of fool for getting into this situation in the first place. There's a _reason_ straight guys are strictly off limits: it never, ever ends well. The floorboards creak softly as Chris moves down the hallway toward him, and Jensen tenses for...well, for what he's not sure. A punch, maybe, or words full of enough hate that they might as well be fists.

"'Cause I like you, all right?" Chris says, and Jensen exhales, the words catching him hard in the chest. "'Cause me and you, we can kick back and just have a good time, and there ain't near enough people like that in my life. 'Cause when we was sittin' out back, you tellin' me the kinky-ass shit you wanted to do, all I could think was 'fuck, yeah.' And 'cause even when we're both pissed as hell at each other—" Chris's voice drops lower as he crowds up against Jensen's back, his hands hot on Jensen's skin and his dick hard against Jensen's ass. "—turns out you can still do this to me."

Jensen closes his eyes, leans his forehead against the smooth, varnished wood of the door, and thinks, _This is a really bad idea._ "This," he repeats aloud, "is a really bad idea." He's not sure who he's trying to convince: himself or Chris. Or maybe he just wants to be able to say 'I told you so' when it all goes to hell.

"Maybe," Chris allows. "Only way to find out for sure is to do it."

[ ]

Behind him, Jensen can hear the sounds of Chris prepping—the crinkle and rip of the condom wrapper, the snick-snap of the cap on the bottle of lube—and he resists looking over his shoulder. Instead, he wraps his hand around his half-hard dick, stroking slowly and just waiting. The bed dips as Chris kneels behind him, and then [ ]

Chris shifts and the head of his dick pushes into Jensen, stretching him with a burning sting that makes Jensen's breath hitch and his body tense. It hurts enough that his own dick starts to lose interest in the proceedings, and he bites his lip to keep quiet.

"Shhh," Chris says softly. "Breathe for me, darlin'."

[ ]

"You honestly think there's anything anatomically possible that I ain't done with a woman at one time or another?"


	16. ( ~15k words of Dean waking up as a girl... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~15k words of Dean waking up as a girl, with complicated ust-y Sam/Dean and some Dean/OMC
> 
> From [my journal](http://montanaharper.dreamwidth.org/20709.html), 5 May 2009: I hung on to this one when I posted everything the other day because I thought I might just get around to doing that total rewrite that it needs. I like a lot about it and you never know, right?
> 
> And then I curled up in bed with [Not Time's Fool](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4720/chapters/5923) by Fayjay and realized that the fannish hive mind has struck again. Obviously, when you're talking about something like "Dean gets turned into a girl," you're going to have similar themes and similar ideas for where the narrative goes. To be honest, I was actually kind of hoping that she'd done what I'd wanted to do so that I could bid this story farewell. I'm not very far into her story yet, but midway into part 2 I'm finding tons of things that make me nod and go, "Yeah, me too!"
> 
> So, cross that WiP off my to-do list. I mean, it's not like I've even looked at the file since September of 2007 anyway. *facepalm*

The morning Dean woke up with breasts, he immediately pulled the covers over his head, rolled over, and went back to sleep. When he woke up again several hours later, he was better rested than he'd been in months, but he was also still stacked.

"Fuck," he said, pushing the blankets off his face. His voice was an octave higher than it should have been and the vibration of it felt weird in his throat.

Across the room, Sam's head snapped up and he peered over the laptop screen. "Dean?"

Dean sighed and pushed himself up on his elbows so he could see Sam better, and so Sam could see him. "Yeah," he said, pleased that he managed to sound way more cool than he felt. "I think we've got a problem."

Leaving Sam to surf the internet looking for anything that sounded like "suddenly woke up a chick," Dean took first shot at the shower. He stepped into the bathroom and froze, staring at his reflection in the grungy mirror.

The weird thing was that he really didn't look that different. His jawline was softer and his nose a little smaller, both of which made his cheekbones seem higher and sharper and his eyes look enormous. Otherwise he just looked like himself. Only more girly. Turning his head a little, he tilted his chin up and flashed his best "you know you wanna" smile. Oh, yeah, he thought. I'd do her.

He ran one hand through his hair, glad to see that at least hadn't changed; he didn't have the patience to deal with anything longer or more complicated. The rest of the situation was complicated enough. His ring spun loose on his finger, and he let it drop off into his other hand, trying it on each finger in turn. It finally slipped, snug, onto his thumb, and he left it there. Reaching over, he started the shower, giving the water time to get hot as he tugged his tee-shirt off over his head and stripped out of his boxer-briefs. The sound of running water made him realize how badly he needed to take a leak, which turned out to be the most surreal part of the experience so far.

It was easy to keep the shower businesslike; the knowledge that Sam was in the next room was more than enough to blunt any desire he had to explore how a female body felt from the inside, because talk about awkward. When he got to the point of soaping up his legs, though, he hit his first serious problem.

He had hairy legs.

Which, you know, was perfectly normal when he was in possession of a Y chromosome, but chicks shouldn't have hairy legs. Of course, who knew how long this girl thing was going to last, or what would happen when he switched back; if his unchanging haircut was any indication, he could wake up tomorrow back to normal except with shaved legs, and that'd be equally weird. After a minute of waffling, he decided Sam would probably figure the situation out right away and so he might as well not worry about it.

His resolve lasted until he went to wash his armpits. Ten minutes later, his legs were reasonably smooth, though dribbling red from half a dozen stinging nicks, and his pits were bare and raw-feeling. He'd have to deal with the pubes later, because no way was he using a razor down there without knowing exactly what the fuck he was doing. He rinsed off the last traces of shaving cream and soap, turned the shower off, and snagged his towel off the bar just outside the tub. After a quick once-over that left him mostly dry, he wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom, dirty clothes in hand.

Sam looked up from the laptop and his eyes went wide. "Jesus, Dean!"

Dean could feel the adrenaline spike all the way to his fingers and toes. Honestly, he just hadn't been thinking—he'd been moving on autopilot—and now he was kicking himself for that, because in their business not thinking could get someone killed. Obviously this whole 'suddenly being a girl' thing was fucking him up more than he'd realized. He forced himself to keep walking, to not let his inner confusion show on the outside.

"Chill," he said, tugging open a drawer on the cheap dresser. "It's not like you've never seen tits before, Sammy. I mean, I know it's probably been a pretty long time and—" He paused and flashed Sam his best shit-eating grin. "—they are really nice tits, but they're still just tits."

"Fuck you," Sam said, his voice tight, and Dean took pity on him—on them both, really—and grabbed a tee-shirt, pulling it over his head and arms, then tugging it over his breasts.

And yeah, that really was kind of weird.

Also, his tee-shirts would never be the same after this, he thought, looking into the mirror over the dresser. His height hadn't changed any, and the rest of him was pretty proportionate, which meant he looked like some kind of Amazon. He turned his back on Sam and slipped his shorts on before dropping the towel. Reaching into the drawer for a pair of jeans, he glanced into the mirror again.

If he'd thought the shirt hadn't fit right, the boxer-briefs were a whole new world of wrong. His waist was too narrow now, and so they slipped down to hang off his hips...except they didn't really hang so much as cling to the curve of his ass in a way that would've been really hot if it hadn't been himself he was looking at. It was still kind of hot, actually.

Not that he'd ever voice that thought out loud, or even think it again until he could get Sam to go away for a couple of hours.

He stepped into the jeans and pulled them up. They fit about like his shorts did, except that they threatened to slip all the way off his hips until he dug out his belt and tightened it a couple of notches past where he usually wore it. His boots were another problem. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he looked back and forth between his foot and his boot, the former a couple of sizes smaller than the latter.

"Hey, Sam?"

Without looking up from his research, Sam said, "Hmm?"

Probably afraid of seeing something else that'd traumatize him, Dean figured. He kind of didn't blame him. "What size shoe do you wear?"

That did get Sam's attention. "What?"

"What. Size. Shoe. Do. You. Wear?" Dean enunciated slowly, holding up his own boot.

Sam frowned. "Uh. Thirteen, why?" And that said more about how this whole thing had affected Sam than anything else so far, because usually he wasn't so slow on the uptake.

"I need to get a new pair of shoes, then. These are too big and yours would be worse." Dean frowned at the boots. He really liked them, and the idea of replacing them, even temporarily, was—

A ball of paper hit him in the head, and then a second one caught him in the face as he looked over his shoulder. "There," Sam said with a small smile, obviously having had a chance to mentally regroup. "Stick those in the toes of your boots for now and we'll get you something better later." Dean was just about to say thanks when Sam muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, "Been a girl less than a day and already he wants to go shoe shopping."

He caught Sam right in the face with both paper balls, thrown in quick succession, and managed to drop to the floor between the beds in time to dodge them on their return journey. The move taught him a valuable lesson about tits, and as he lay on the floor catching his breath and recovering from the sharp spikes of pain, he made a mental note to never do that again. Or at least to make sure he caught himself before his chest touched down, because fucking ow.

Finally fully dressed, he wandered over to stand behind Sam and look over his shoulder. "Any luck?"

Sam shook his head and closed the laptop. "There's a bunch of crap that has nothing to do with anything, and a book that might be interesting if we can find a copy in the local library." He stood and stretched. "I now know more about transsexuality and transgender than I ever really needed to, though."

The library was a bust—Dean stifled what probably would've been a slightly hysterical laugh at the unintentional pun—at least as far as finding useful references to magical sex changes. While Sam had been checking out the boring academic books, Dean had taken the opportunity to skim some beauty and fashion magazines and a dog-eared copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves. He'd ignored the chapters on health and other touchy-feely crap, breezed through the chapters on relationships with men and women, and homed in on the one on sexuality.

Before he could actually read it, though, he'd caught movement out of the corner of his eye and had just managed to get the book shoved back on the shelf before Sam got close enough to see what he'd been reading.

The shoe store was more successful, netting him a new pair of sneakers and a pair of boots that were nearly identical to his old ones. He even realized before reaching the check-out counter that Ian McDonald wasn't exactly a feminine name, and managed to slip the credit card into Sam's back pocket without a hitch.

Sam shot him an exasperated look at their detour into a women's clothing store on the way back to the car, but didn't say a word.

While Sam paced the motel room, on the phone with their various contacts, Dean lay on the floor, knees bent and ankles crossed. He worked his way—carefully—through his usual routine of a dozen sets of ten crunches, mentally retracing his steps over the last couple of days in the hopes that something would jump out at him.

He really couldn't come up with anything. Their last job had been a fairly basic poltergeist, and if there was a connection it was one he couldn't see. They'd wrapped it up in the early hours of yesterday morning, crashed most of yesterday, and then gone to the local dive for greasy burgers and a couple of games of darts. He'd talked to a couple of girls, tried to get Sammy to talk to at least one girl, and then they'd come back here and he'd crashed pretty hard.

And woken up with a rack.

He stretched out and sighed, then glanced over at Sam, who was staring at the aforementioned rack. Sam pulled the phone away from his ear and tossed it on the bed, flushing when he realized Dean had caught him looking.

"You couldn't have found something a little less...eye-catching?" Sam said, defensively, gesturing toward his own chest in an obvious attempt to avoid pointing at Dean's.

Dean looked down at his shirt and shrugged. It wasn't his fault it had "Princess" lettered across the front in rhinestones. It was black, it fit, and it had been on the discount rack; those had pretty much been Dean's only criteria. The goal had been to find something he could wear, not to be fashionable.

Sam looked away, and paced to the far side of the room.

Rolling over onto his stomach, Dean experimented with a push-up. A couple more and he'd worked out how he needed to modify them to accommodate his chest. He was only three sets in when Sam said stiffly, "I'm going to take a shower," and he managed to grunt out an acknowledgement before he heard the bathroom door close.

He ended up only making it halfway through his routine before he had to give up, collapsing down onto the floor with his pecs and triceps burning. When he felt like he could move again, he did some cool-down stretches; the last thing he wanted was to stiffen up and be sore tomorrow.

When the shower still hadn't shut off by that point, Dean stretched out on the bed and grabbed the remote. He started flipping channels on the television, his mind still on other things. Like what the hell was taking Sam so long, and whether or not he should go and check to make sure that nothing had happened to him. Just as he was sitting up, though, he suddenly put two and two together and came up with a vivid image of Sam jerking off in the shower.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He dropped his head back onto the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. There'd been a time, right before Sam left, when Dean had thought about that particular image a lot: Sam jerking off in the shower; Sam jerking off in bed; Sam jerking off in the back seat of the Impala. Dean had had what you might call a theme going in his fantasies.

It had been a long time, though, since he'd thought about it. Sam had gone off to college, and with Dad leaving him more and more on his own, Dean had taken the opportunity to experiment a little. He'd picked up guys and let the memories of those encounters—random men jerking off, jerking him off, sucking him off, letting him fuck them—fill up the place where his Sam fantasies had been. And after a while, he hadn't even needed that anymore; it was easier, safer, to only pick up women, and it wasn't like Dean minded. He was as much a fan of pussy as he was of dick.

Though when it came to his own body, he kind of preferred dick.

Right now, though, the heat pooling low in his stomach wasn't that different from what he was used to; he knew he should probably resist the urge, but the idea of Sam in the shower, turned on and jerking off because of him.... Oh, hell yeah.

He slipped a hand into his jeans, working his fingers under the waistband of his shorts and brushing past the soft curls of his pubes until he could feel wet heat. Shifting one knee up to give himself more room—and it would've been far easier naked, but he couldn't risk that while Sam was around—he felt tentatively for his clit. He knew immediately when he brushed across it with a fingertip, the pleasure jolting through him like electricity. Sliding his hand further down, he slid two fingers over his pussy, letting himself imagine that they were Sam's fingers, or maybe even Sam's dick pressing against him, ready to push inside.

It was the sudden absence of sound that brought him up short, made him pull his hand guiltily out of his pants. His fingers glistened, slick and wet with the damning evidence of what he'd been doing, and he could feel the same slickness between his legs when he shifted. Trying not to think too hard about the fact that not only was he still horny, but now he was frustrated, too, he quickly sucked his fingers into his mouth, licking the tangy sweetness away, and then wiped them on his jeans.

When Sam stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, he was a little flushed, and Dean told himself it was just from the heat of the shower. It had to be. There were a couple of bits of toilet paper stuck along Sam's jawline, held in place with dots of blood, and he was brandishing their cheap yellow disposable razor.

"What the fuck did you do to the razor, Dean? Use it to—" Sam froze, looking at him, and Dean could almost see the realization dawning, and with it a flush rising up Sam's chest to his face. "You shaved—"

Heart hammering, Dean went for his wickedest grin, the one that always left the girls swooning. "Yeah, I shaved my legs," he said. "And...stuff."

Without a word, and looking more than a little dazed, Sam spun around and disappeared back into the bathroom, the door closing firmly behind him. For a few seconds there was the sound of water running in the sink, and then the door opened again and Sam reappeared, his face wet like he'd splashed water on it. Rummaging around in the dresser, he pulled out clean clothes and started getting dressed. Dean went back to flipping channels with the remote.

A couple of times he glanced over and caught Sam looking at him, his expression unreadable. It made Dean feel awkward and wrong inside his skin, and he had to fight the urge to squirm. When it happened for the third time, he finally sat up and swung his legs off the bed, turning his back on Sam like not seeing Sam's face would somehow make the weirdness disappear.

Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.

He took a deep breath and stood, grabbing his keys off the nightstand with the intention of going out and just driving around to clear his head, but when he turned, Sam was right there, in his face. In his space.

"I think we should call Dad," Sam said, and this time it was easy for Dean to read his expression: worried.

"No." Dean grabbed the cellphone before Sam could finish dialing. He pushed the 'cancel' button and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. "We are not calling Dad about this. I can think of dozens of conversations I'd rather have with him, including the one about how I drank his stash of Don Julio back in '96." And, he thought, the one where I tell him that I fucked Caleb.

Sam had started to say something, but now his mouth snapped shut and he just stared at Dean, who could feel the blush starting at his neck and creeping upward. Fuck, he really hated the way his responses were twisted until it felt like he wasn't himself, like he was driving someone else's body and wasn't really in control.

Shit.

He dangled the keys. "I'm hungry. You up for beer, burgers, and hustling some pool?"

Sam nodded, a jerky motion, and sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes. Dean headed out to the car, trusting that Sam would follow.

The beer was cold, the burgers greasy, and there were suckers lining up and practically begging Dean to take their money at the pool tables.

He was pretty sure it was mostly so that they could try to look down his shirt or check out his ass when he took a shot, but he really couldn't care less. He had a few hundred bucks in his pocket in less time than it usually took him to find and hustle a single game.

It was possible there was an upside to being a girl.

Apparently he was a lightweight now, though, which kind of sucked; he'd only had a couple of beers and he was already moving past happy buzz and into karaoke territory. He downed the last swallow of his third beer, sank the last ball, and collected his winnings from a biker who wasn't real pleased to have lost to a chick. Dean just smirked at him, turned down his offer of a rematch—he wasn't about to push his luck—and pretended not to hear the growled "...bitch needs a good, hard dicking..." as he walked away.

The heavy warmth was still there, low in his belly, and even though it was different from what he was used to, he recognized it as the aching need to fuck—or, in this case, get fucked. Not by Biker Guy, though; his idea of a date was probably dropping five bucks on truck-stop tail.

Dean made a detour to the john on his way back to the table, remembering just in time that he was a "filly" now, rather than a "stallion." He was a little surprised at how awkward it felt to push that door open and step across a threshold that part of his brain told him should be off limits, but no one gave him a second glance.

Back at the table, he dropped into his chair and said, "You know, there's actually paper towels in the dispenser in the women's john."

"I really don't want to know this stuff," Sam said, his eyes not meeting Dean's.

Dean laughed. "You and me both, man," he said, flagging down the waitress and ordering some fries. He pulled a five out of his pocket. "Here," he said to Sam. "Go put something good on the jukebox."

Sam shook his head, but he went. While he was gone, Dean took the opportunity to check out his prospects. There were a couple of guys who weren't bad looking. One of them—a brunet sitting at the bar—caught him looking; Dean made eye contact and smiled. The guy smiled back, then turned to say something to the bartender, and Dean went back to surveying the room until Sam slid into the chair across from him again.

"Five bucks worth of boybands, just for you, Deena," Sam said, and Dean might even have believed him if not for the strains of Lynyrd Skynyrd drifting across the room.

Instead, he just said, "Poison Whiskey? Is that supposed to be some kind of message?"

Before Sam could respond, the waitress showed up and set a basket of fries and a bottle on the table in front of Dean. "Beer's on him," she said, indicating the brunet at the bar. Dean shot him a grin and a nod, then tipped the bottle up and drained half of it. Sam frowned at him and hissed, "What are you doing?"

"Drinking a free beer?" Dean was pleased at how smooth and cool he sounded, despite the sudden knot of tension in his stomach and the way his pulse sped up at the thought of getting laid. His body may have been different, but the cues were still the same.

"Fuck, Dean, it's bad enough—" Sam's gaze flicked away from him and then back. "Shit. He's coming over here."

The guy either had brass balls or was dumb as a post, Dean decided, because he kept coming despite the glare Sam was shooting him. Finishing off his drink and saluting the guy with the empty bottle, Dean said, "Hi. Thanks for the beer."

"Yeah, I wanted to apologize for that," the guy said with a wry smile. "I didn't realize you were here with your boyfriend."

Sam opened his mouth and Dean stepped on his foot under the table. "It's cool," Dean said. "I'm Deena, and this is Sam. Who is not my boyfriend, by the way."

"Wade," the guy offered, and he didn't seem at all flustered as Dean let his gaze trail down and then back up again.

Yeah, this could definitely work. Wade was tall and lean, with narrow hips and broad shoulders, and a thousand-watt smile. Exactly his type. Dean licked his lips. "You like to dance, Wade?" He didn't wait for an answer, just shoved the fries across the table toward Sam and stood.

Sam grabbed for his wrist, caught him and pulled him back down. "Dean," he hissed, only letting go when Dean narrowed his eyes.

Leaning forward until his mouth was next to Sam's ear, Dean whispered, "I just wanna have a little fun while I can, Sammy. Quit with the cockblocking." When he pulled back, Sam was staring at him like he thought Dean was possessed. Dean flashed him a quick smile and then stood again.

"Sorry," he said to Wade. "My friend's a little overprotective. He ain't figured out that I can take care of myself."

Taking Wade's hand, Dean led him out onto the postage-stamp-sized dance floor. He could tell without looking that Sam was watching them, but he ignored it, focusing his attention on Wade, who aimed another one of those blinding smiles at him and laced their fingers together. Wade's hands were big—big enough to make Dean's seem almost delicate in comparison—and his fingers were callused and stained dark around the nails; they were the hands of a mechanic, Dean was betting.

The next song was a ballad, and Dean leaned in, sliding his arms around Wade's neck and relaxing against his body, swaying in time with the music. Between the beers and the arousal that had been simmering under his skin for most of the evening, Dean was feeling a little wild, like he wanted to take a few risks. He was wet and slick between his legs, unfamiliar sensations thrumming through him, and he was almost desperate to get laid.

If they'd been at the kind of bar where Dean usually picked up guys, they would've just gone to the john, Dean pushing Wade into one of the stalls before dropping to his knees and sucking Wade's dick. A place like this, though? It was pretty much out of the question. So was taking Wade back to the motel; sketches of demons and newspaper clippings about murders were kind of a turn-off for most people.

For half a second, he considered going home with Wade—until he pictured Wade's reaction at waking up next to a guy when he'd gone to bed with a girl. Even if Dean didn't know for sure that he'd change back by morning, the risk was too great.

The Impala, though.... That was just risky enough to be really hot, and he thought he knew how to get them there. "So, what kind of work do you do?"

"Mechanic," Wade said, and Dean fought back a grin. Score.

"Yeah, she's a real beauty, ain't she?" Dean said, running a hand over the sleek black hood of the Impala.

Wade nodded silently, then said, "Almost as much of one as her owner," and the compliment felt both sincere and strange to Dean—in part because it was the kind of thing he'd say to a girl. He wasn't sure how to react.

Before the silence had a chance to stretch too long and turn into something awkward, though, Wade leaned forward and kissed hm. Dean let himself relax into the kiss, slid his hands around Wade's waist and then down, pulling their hips together tight. Best to make his intentions crystal clear up front, he figured.

The hard line of Wade's dick was unmistakable where it pressed into Dean's hip. Dean groaned and pulled back enough to say, "Jesus. Much as I'd love for you to fuck me over the hood of the car, it's probably not a good idea."

He could hear Wade's breath hitch. "Backseat?" Wade asked, and his voice was low and rough. Dean nodded, releasing his grip on Wade's ass and fumbling with the door.

Even in something as big as the Impala, the backseat wasn't exactly roomy, not when it came to two people over six foot tall trying to fuck, but Wade slid between Dean's legs, pulling the door shut behind him, and Dean was already working on the buttons of Wade's jeans, tugging them loose until he could get his hand in, wrap it around Wade's dick. He dragged his thumb across the head, smearing it through sticky-slick precome and then lifting it to his mouth, the salty bitterness familiar. Wade's eyes were wide as they tracked the movement, and then his gaze shifted down to where he was working on Dean's belt with hands that Dean could feel shake.

"Here, let me," Dean said, tugging the belt loose and flicking the button open. He was unbelievably wet, dripping with it, almost; he wondered if this was the female equivalent of being hard enough to pound nails, because there sure as hell was the same sense of urgency. Zipper undone, he lifted his hips and shoved at his jeans, and fuck, he hadn't thought about the fact that he was going to have to actually take them off for this to work, which meant that his fucking boots had to go. He almost wished he'd thought to pick up a skirt or two when he was at the store earlier, because that would've been so much easier.

It was awkward in the cramped space, but they managed to get Dean's boots off, letting them drop to the floorboards, the jeans and boxer-briefs following almost immediately. For one absurd second, as Wade's hands slid up his calves and the backs of his thighs, he was really glad he'd shaved his legs that morning.

"D'you have anything?" It took a beat before the words made sense, but when they clicked, Dean nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "Hang on."

He leaned over the seatback into the front seat, stretching and scooting forward until he could open the glove compartment and rummage around. Box of Trojans in hand, he started to slide backward, but Wade's hands pressed against his ass, pinning him, and he tensed, his instincts a fraction of a second ahead of rational thought. The protest died in his throat, though, when he felt himself being spread open, Wade's tongue working its way into his pussy.

Jesus fuck.

The sound he made might have been embarrassing under any other circumstances, but right now, with Wade's fingers and tongue pressing into him, Wade's thumb circling his clit and making him shudder and clench? Right now, he didn't care. He spread his legs wider.

His orgasm surprised him, a subtle build of sensation that suddenly washed over him and left him gasping for air.

When Dean finally collapsed back into the backseat, Wade grinned at him with just a hint of smugness, his mouth glossy and wet and inviting. Dean leaned in and kissed him, licking the taste of himself off Wade's lips and tongue, trying with only moderate success to rip open the box of condoms at the same time. He finally had to pull back, heart pounding and breath as ragged as if he'd been running, to tear open the foil packet. Rolling a condom on—even onto another guy's dick—was easy and familiar, and once that was done he straddled Wade's lap. His right knee came down on something hard and lumpy, and when he reached down, his fingers closed around a set of Rosary beads; he tossed them into the back window, his other hand already reaching between them and guiding Wade's dick into position.

It crossed his mind that maybe it wasn't the smartest thing for him to try being on top when he had only the vaguest clue what he was doing, but Wade's hands were already curled around his hips and he was arching up as Dean was pressing down, and smart or not, they were doing it.

There was an instant of resistance—a quick, sharp pain totally unlike the breath-stealing burn of a dick sliding into his ass—and then it was like being stretched and filled and Jesus it was good. "Oh, yeah," he breathed.

Wade, though, had frozen in place, his expression unreadable and his grip on Dean tightening to the point where Dean was pretty sure he'd have bruises come morning. His first thought was that Wade was close to coming and trying to hold off; he'd been in that boat himself, so he concentrated on not moving, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Was that—" Wade stopped, swallowed. "Were you a virgin?"

Oh, shit.

Because, yeah, he probably had been, physically at least, and he'd never even thought about it. He'd hesitated too long to outright deny it, though, so he said, "Yeah," his mind racing for an explanation of how someone as obviously hot—and hot for it—would still be a virgin. An explanation that didn't involve him having randomly woken up as the opposite sex this morning.

The reflection of the Rosary in the back window caught his eye, and he said, "I, um. I was a novitiate until a few weeks ago, when I decided not to take my final vows."

Wade's hands disappeared from his hips. "Oh, fuck," he said, and Dean could feel the dick inside him softening, which was so very much not what he wanted to happen. "I just defiled a nun."

"Former wannabe-nun," Dean corrected. And okay, so it was not his most brilliant lie ever; he'd not only fucked up any chance he had of getting laid, but it sounded like he'd probably landed the guy in therapy for life. "There's really nothing I can say to make this okay again, is there?" he asked, and Wade shook his head mutely, not meeting Dean's eyes. "Great."

He pulled off and moved away, digging through the tangle of clothes on the floor until he found his shorts. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wade slipping the condom off and doing up his jeans.

"Look, Deena—"

Dean shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said. "It freaks you out. Nothing either of us can do about it."

Without another word, Wade slipped out of the car. Dean finished getting dressed and went to find Sam.

Sam held his hand out for the keys and Dean just glared at him before sliding into the driver's seat. He pumped the gas twice and turned the key, watching in the rear-view mirror as Sam walked around to the passenger side. The engine caught and the stereo kicked in just as Sam pulled the door open, Foreigner not-quite-blasting from the speakers.

 _Are you old enough?  
Will you be ready when I call your bluff?  
Is my timing right?  
Did you save your love for me tonight?_

Dean reached out and twisted the knob viciously, shutting the radio off.

Sam didn't say anything, but the tense set of his shoulders communicated plenty, and Dean was uncomfortably aware of the lingering smell of sweat and sex in the confined space. The trip back to the motel seemed to take forever—an awkward, silent forever—and Dean was pretty sure there was more to it than just Sam freaking out over him picking up a guy or getting laid while his body was female. He just wasn't sure exactly what that more was.

Sam had the door open and was out of the car before Dean could shift into park. He was expecting the silent treatment to continue, so when he stepped through the door to find himself slammed up against the wall, he reacted on instinct, dropping Sam to the floor, a knee in his solar plexus. In the dim light from the lone table lamp, he could see Sam's eyes, wide and dark.

"What—" Dean started.

"No." The word was more breathed than spoken, and Dean wasn't even sure it was directed at him.

Then Sam shoved him off, and Dean let him, settling on the floor with his back to the nearest bed. Much as he hated the idea of having a Lifetime-movie-of-the-week conversation, it was either that or let things keep getting worse. Besides, it didn't count when he was a girl; girls were supposed to want to talk about feelings, right?

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," he said, "but...talk to me, dude. What the hell has got your panties in a bunch?" Sam glared at him and Dean shrugged. "You know what I mean."

Sam leaned against the wall, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. After a minute, he said quietly, "How can you have so little respect for yourself?"

And that totally threw Dean, because what? "What?"

"Treating yourself that way. Letting him treat you that way." Sam's tone was still even, but now there was a hint of something else underneath. Dean couldn't place the emotion, but he wasn't trying that hard; he was still caught up in the words themselves, because he was pretty sure that Sam couldn't be saying what it sounded like he was saying.

"What way? We were two consenting adults." Sam shook his head, and Dean repeated, "Consenting. Adults."

Leaning forward, Sam said, "I can't believe you just— And in the car! Are you suddenly back in high school? Parking? In what way is that the behavior of an adult?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did we offend your delicate sensibilities?" Dean snapped. "For fuck's sake! It didn't even really happen."

Sam looked at him incredulously. "Yeah, right," he said. "The car smelled like a whorehouse, Dean. You going to tell me I imagined that?"

Resisting the urge to throw something or punch something or maybe just shout in frustration, Dean said, "Do you really want details of my sex life? Seems like what you know already is a problem for you." When Sam just continued to glare at him, he gave up. "Fine. I had his dick in me for about thirty seconds, until we figured out I was a virgin. Then he freaked and left. Are you happy?"

Under other circumstances, the sheer number of expressions that crossed Sam's face would've been funny, but now Dean found himself holding his breath, waiting. Finally, Sam said, "You let that—that jerk pop your cherry?"

Of all the things to get stuck on. "I didn't even know I had a cherry to pop. I just wanted to get laid. Jesus. Why is it such a big deal?"

Sam didn't answer, his gaze darting away from Dean's face like he couldn't stand to look at him.

"So this is because my hookup was a guy?" Dean said, ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd made sure no one who knew him knew that he banged guys; he hadn't been much more than a kid when he'd learned some hard lessons about intolerance and prejudice. There'd been a part of him, though, that had always believed Sam was better than that, had believed Sam, of all people, wouldn't judge him.

"Dude—" Sam started.

Dean talked over him, not really wanting to hear what he had to say. "Or do you just act like a just sexist asshole to all the women you know? Because I have to say, it's not an attractive trait, and I'm surprised Jess put up with it."

He wasn't expecting Sam to lunge forward and swing at him, but he probably should have been. As it was, the punch was unfocused and glanced off his jaw with barely any real impact, but then Sam was up in his face, hands clenched on his shoulders. "You think I don't get it?" Sam shouted. "That I'm completely stupid?"

Maybe the punch had connected after all; either that or Sam really wasn't making any sense. "Get what?" Dean asked, not even bothering to shove him off. "What the hell are you talking about?"

And as suddenly as it had come, Sam's rage seemed to vanish, leaving him looking a little lost. "What it means when you go to a bar, pick up a guy who looks like me, and fuck him," he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I get it, Dean, I do. I just— I can't—" Before Dean could even react, Sam was kissing him, mouth hot and wet and demanding.

Closing his eyes, Dean kissed back.

When Sam pulled away, Dean could feel reluctance in the way he let go of Dean's shoulders, one hand sliding up to curve along Dean's jaw. Then he was gone, across the room and pacing, and Dean was still sprawled on the floor, totally wrecked.

"It wasn't on purpose," Dean said. "None of it." He wasn't sure why, but he really needed Sam to believe that.

Sam didn't look at him, just crossed the room again. "Are you saying you didn't want that, just now? And it was just coincidence that the jerk at the bar could've been my twin?"

It would be easy to say yes, to lie. Even if neither of them really believed it, they could pretend to. Plausible deniability.

"No," he said, trying to pull himself together. "I wanted it." Getting to his feet, he tugged the hem of his shirt down, but didn't move any closer to where Sam was standing at the window, staring out into the darkness.

"How long?" Sam's voice was emotionless, like they were talking about the weather. He let the curtain drop, but didn't turn back around.

"Couple of years." Dean shrugged. "Managed not to think about it most of the time."

"And Wade?"

Now Dean did move closer, putting a hand lightly on Sam's arm. "Like I said, it wasn't on purpose. I'd had a few beers, was looking for someone willing. He was there." Guiltily, he remembered thinking Wade was just his type.

"We can't do this," Sam said.

Dean let his hand drop. "I never figured we could."

They didn't talk about it again.

Sam stopped being so overprotective, started going for a run whenever Dean worked out in their motel room, and didn't say anything when Dean danced with half the guys at the bar.

Dean didn't do anything more than dance, started changing his clothes in the bathroom with the door closed, and never, ever let himself think about the kiss.

It wasn't so hard, really. Or at least that's what Dean told himself.

A week passed and neither of them had turned up anything useful on Dean's condition. There was an edge of desperation to Sam now, a hint of panic in his insistence that there was a solution out there somewhere and that it was just a matter of looking a little harder.

Dean wasn't so sure of that. He felt like maybe he'd gone right past panic, though, and into something like resignation, or maybe it was just pragmatism. As much as he wanted to be back to his old self, he also knew Sam would never have kissed him when he was a guy. At any rate, he'd already started acquiring appropriate identification and credit cards, and was slowly figuring out how to use his newfound femininity to their advantage. So far he'd only managed to get them an unofficial discount from the skeevy cashier at the corner mini-mart, but it was a start.

They were just thinking about moving on, finding another gig, when they saw the local Friday-night news report of a teenager being mauled by a wolf earlier in the day. It seemed like it might not even be their kind of thing, but Dean had been a little paranoid about wild animal attacks ever since Lost Creek. Even though this one sounded authentic, Dean was bored enough to check it out; seven days spent mostly cooped up inside the motel was enough to make him more than a little stir-crazy, and he pushed the issue until Sam finally caved.

First stop the next morning was the ranger station to talk to the guy who'd found the body. "He" turned out to be a hottie named Rhonda—tall and athletic, with hazel eyes and freckles and curly blonde hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. She smiled across her desk at them and said, "Fish and Wildlife, huh? So, what I can I do for you?"

Dean had already opened his mouth when Sam leaned forward earnestly. "The department is concerned about the possibility of a pack of Canis lupis damaging the local ecosystem," he said.

"Damaging the local ecosystem?" Rhonda raised an eyebrow, obviously skeptical. "They're endangered, aren't they?"

Sam ducked his head and smiled sheepishly. Dean recognized it as Sam's 'aw, shucks, you got me' expression, the one he'd been using to charm his way out of trouble with chicks pretty much since he hit puberty. "They are," Sam admitted. "[They might need to be relocated, for their own protection.]"

Rhonda wasn't buying it, though. Her expression hardened and she said, "Protection from some local who's just trying to keep his family safe?"

"We're not here to judge—"

"Then why, exactly, are you here?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

It had to be some kind of record, because even Dean had never managed to talk someone from friendly and helpful to angry and hostile in under a minute, and Sam? Sam almost never pissed folks off. Well, no one who wasn't Dean or their dad, at any rate.

Dean interrupted, figuring he couldn't possibly make it worse. "It sounds like this was an isolated incident, is that right? No other wolf attacks that you know of?"

For a second, it looked like she was going to give him the same cold shoulder she was giving Sam, but then she relaxed just a little and said, "No, nothing that I know of. There haven't even been any reports of sightings in that area until now."

"But elsewhere?" Dean asked, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam sit back.

Ronda nodded, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray curl back behind her ear. "Higher up on the ridge," she said. "We've had a few reports from campers. They've only mentioned seeing a single wolf, though, so I don't know if there's a pack living up there or what."

A werewolf would explain the lack of wolf sightings in the area where the attack had taken place. "You're the one who found the body, right? Did you notice anything strange?"

"Strange?"

["Unusual. Anything you wouldn't expect to see." He didn't want to lead her, but she was still looking puzzled. "]

[ ]

Down at the drive-in burger place, they got half a dozen versions of the same reaction from kids who'd known Lance—[quote?]—complete with tears from a few of the girls.

[ ]

The coroner's report wasn't complete yet, but Sam slipped into the office to look for information while Dean distracted the morgue's night-shift guy with cleavage and flirtatious smiles and a spur-of-the-moment tale of getting lost looking for the hospital gift shop. The guy—whose name turned out to be Davis, though Dean wasn't clear whether that was a first or last name—offered to show him the way, and Dean spun his story out as they walked along, tossing in random details about his sister and her emergency appendectomy.

He ditched the teddy bear in the trunk of the Impala, making a mental note to ditch it at the earliest opportunity, and slid into the front seat. Ignoring the clench of Sam's jaw and the tense set of his shoulders, Dean said, "You find anything?"

Sam held up an audiotape. "I'm pretty sure it's the autopsy," he said. "I haven't listened to it yet; I was waiting for you."

Dean ignored the verbal jab, taking the tape from Sam and slotting it into the Impala's cassette deck. Half an hour later Sam was looking distinctly green, and all they'd learned was that the Florence County coroner had a cast-iron stomach, liked roast-beef sandwiches, and wasn't about to commit himself beyond "looks like an animal got him" on Lance Grey's cause of death.

[ ]

Dean leaned on the bar, still catching his breath from the last dance. "Hook me up." When Kevin set the bottle down, a familiar hand reached over Dean's shoulder and slid a five across the bar.

"It's on me," Wade said.

"Seems to me we already [?]ed this [?]." Dean took a drink of the beer anyway, because free beer was free beer.

Wade slid onto the barstool beside him. "Yeah," he said, "about that. Any chance you'll let me just apologize for being such an ass, or is this going to require actual groveling?"

Dean looked over at him, pretending to consider. He didn't think Wade had anything to apologize for; if it had been him in the same situation...well, it was fifty-fifty whether he would've freaked or thought it was hot as hell, but he couldn't blame the guy for his reaction. Wade shifted uncomfortably but didn't look away, and Dean gave him points for being both sincere and ballsy.

"I think another beer and a slow dance should do for penance," he said, flashing Wade a quick smile, and was pleased to see that Wade didn't even twitch at the reference. Dean finished his beer and set the empty on the bar, then headed for the dance floor. Over his shoulder, he said, "Coming?"

He fed a handful of quarters into the jukebox, picked a couple of good slow songs, and slid his arms around Wade's neck, letting the music take over. He hadn't slow danced with a guy since the last time with Wade , since he'd decided it was easier to stay celibate, easier to avoid temptation entirely, than to go another round or six with Sam. It wasn't any less of a temptation than it had been before, but he was starting to care less and less about Sam's issues.

It felt good to let go a little, to allow himself to get physically close to someone after holding back for the last few weeks. He hadn't even realized how many casual touches passed between him and Sam every day until Sam had stopped touching him, until he'd had to fight against the urge to reach out to fill the void. Wade's hands were warm and solid—one between Dean's shoulders and one splayed out across the small of his back—and Dean kind of wanted to feel them pressed against his skin.

Halfway through the second dance, Wade said, "I don't mean to press my luck—" and Dean couldn't suppress the snort of laughter as he remembered himself saying the exact same thing to Kathleen not that long ago.

"Your luck is so pressed," he said, echoing her response to him, but softening it with a smile.

"Okay," Wade said, nodding, and his easy acceptance of what he obviously took to be a 'no' before the question had even been asked made Dean want to kiss him.

So he did. He tilted his head up and started with a chaste brush of his lips to the corner of Wade's mouth, waiting until he was sure they were on the same page before pressing closer, turning the kiss wet and lewd and hoping that Wade got the message.

When the song ended, Dean slowly pulled away. "You have beer at your place?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah," Wade said, looking puzzled.

"Good. You still owe me one."

There was a half second where he thought maybe Wade was going to turn him down, but then he was treated to a dazzling smile, and Wade said, "[]."

Wade's hand stayed on the small of Dean's back as they headed toward the door, Dean steering them past the table where Sam sat drinking as he pored over Dad's journal and sulked.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam's head snapped up. Dean tossed him the keys to the Impala. "I don't figure on being back tonight, just so you know."

For a second, he thought Sam was going to argue with him, and he was steeling himself, but Sam just said, "Wade, right? Wade Dalton?" When Wade nodded, Sam continued, "132 Walnut? Blue house with white trim?"

Dean shouldn't have been surprised; Sam always had been an overachiever when it came to research. Still, this was going way the hell too far. "Jesus, Sam. What, you're stalking—" He cut himself off because he realized that he wasn't sure how to end that sentence; '—guys I'm fucking' was a little too blunt, maybe.

Sam didn't even look at him, though; he was still focused on Wade, who looked as shocked as Dean felt. "Just— Treat her right, you understand?" Sam said. "That's all."

Wade nodded again. "I will," he said, his voice calm and sincere, like Sam hadn't just pretty much threatened his life. Not to mention treated Dean like some object, the safekeeping of which could be transferred between the two of them—and they were going to have a conversation about that later, him and Sam, that was for sure.

In the meantime, Dean settled for glaring at Sam, and then he followed Wade to the door.

"My ride's not as sweet as yours, but I think you'll like her," Wade said as he held the door, the crisp fall air refreshing after the stale beer-and-cigarettes atmosphere of the bar.

Halfway across the parking lot, Dean realized Wade had totally been lying.

He ran his fingers reverently over the sleek candy-apple-red finish of the 1969 GTO and tried not to drool. "She's gorgeous," he said softly, irrationally afraid that the Impala would hear him and be jealous.

Wade beamed. "I restored her myself. Took a good six months of weekend work, but she runs smooth as silk now."

"Yeah, you're good with your hands," Dean said, and it turned out his best fuck-me look worked just as well when he was a chick, because Wade flushed.

"Here," Wade said, reaching for the handle and opening the car door for Dean. Dean tugged on the front of his shirt, pulling him close and kissing him long and slow before sliding into the leather bucket seat.

It wasn't far from the bar to Wade's house—blue with white trim, just like Sam had said, which didn't help Dean's level of irritation at him—and Dean let Wade open the car door for him and escort him up the front walk and inside.

"Sorry," Wade said, scrambling to pick up the socks and magazines and pizza boxes that littered the living room.

Dean laughed. "Screw that. You've got a bed, right? Some flat, horizontal surface?"

"You know, you're nothing like any woman I've ever dated," Wade said, shaking his head, and Dean laughed again and said, "You have no idea."

The bed looked narrow, but it had to be better than the backseat of the Impala had been, so Dean crowded into Wade's space, walking him backward until he couldn't go any further. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pushed forward again, urging Wade down onto the bed; he didn't resist when Wade's hands curled around his hips and tugged, letting himself fall, too, and trusting that Wade could take his weight.

His first instinct was to thrust, to grind the ache of his arousal against Wade's thigh, but the mechanics were different now and it wasn't nearly enough to provide relief. As he shifted, he could feel Wade's dick, though, the hard length of it pressing against his belly as Wade arched up to meet him, and he groaned into Wade's mouth.

There was less urgency in their movements this time, clothing being shed piece by piece between slow, deep kisses.

[ ]

"That was...."

"Not really the blowjob of a virgin?"

"Um. Not so much, no."

[pr0n]

Wade was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, looking at Dean.

Dean, lazy and floating on a post-orgasm high, stretched and said, "See something you like?" He realized his mistake as soon as the words were out, Wade's smile turning soft, shy.

"You could say that," he answered. "I haven't been able to think about anything but you since the other night."

Jesus. Wasn't he the one who was supposed to get all clingy and think he was in love with his "first" fuck? The problem was that he really did like Wade; the guy was sexy and sweet and awesome in bed.

"Look, Wade, you're a really nice guy—" he started.

"But you're not looking for something serious," Wade finished wryly, and for a second Dean wished things could be different, because Wade was the kind of guy he could see himself actually dating—if he was stuck as a chick, and if not for the whole hunting gig.

Dean shook his head, letting the regret show. "I'm really not. Not right now. I don't even know how long me and Sam will be sticking around."

"We should make the most of the time we've got, then," Wade said, his fingers curving around Dean's side, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin over Dean's hipbone.

The door closed behind Dean, but he could still hear the purr of Wade's GTO as it pulled away. Sam was standing next to the window, not even pretending that he hadn't been watching through the gap in the curtains, and Dean braced himself for the fight he was pretty sure was going to happen. When Sam turned around, though, Dean could see that he looked like hell, like he'd spent the night battling a poltergeist or three. For a second he was afraid Sam really had tried to handle something dangerous on his own, too pissed at Dean—or too worried that Dean would be pissed at him—to ask for help.

Then Sam said, "I've been doing some thinking," and that was almost worse, because Sam thinking usually led to him trying to get Dean to talk about his feelings.

On the other hand, Dean would rather talk about feelings than have another knock-down drag-out fight with Sam at this point. He took a deep breath, and said, "I was really pissed last night when you went all [?] on me. I get that you worry, but I didn't actually use my dick to kick ass before, so not having it isn't stopping me now."

Sam stepped closer. "That's not the problem." When Dean raised his eyebrows incredulously, Sam gave him a wry grin and said, "Okay, that's not the whole problem. Yes, I worry about you, but not any more than I did before. I guess I just figure you're less likely to kick my ass for expressing it now."

"Yeah, well you're wrong about that, Sammy." Dean's back was already almost against the wall—and if that wasn't a fitting metaphor, he didn't know what was—but Sam was still closing in, not giving him any space at all. It felt like Sam was trying to crowd him, trying to use his height and bulk to intimidate, and he wanted to push Sam away or maybe slip sideways to freedom, but he also wanted to stand his ground.

"I'm starting to realize that," Sam said. "I know you think I'm a total jerk, Dean, but I'm not trying to be."

"How about trying not to be?" Dean snapped, unnerved by Sam's closeness. "So if the rack's not the problem, what is?"

Sam leaned forward and Dean clenched his hands at his sides, ready to defend himself, but then Sam raised one hand to cup Dean's jaw, slid his thumb across Dean's lower lip, and leaned in for a kiss. Slow and gentle and [almost chaste], it was nothing like their first had been. Dean felt like he was drowning.

"That's the problem," Sam said softly, leaning his forehead against Dean's.

Dean licked his lips. "I've gotta say, I don't really see that as a problem so much as a good start." He could feel the warm brush of Sam's breath against his mouth. "Now, the lack of follow-through? That could be a problem."

"We can't."

When Dean opened his mouth to argue, Sam silenced him with more kisses, each one soft and undemanding but somehow also conveying a sense of want, of need, until Dean was sure that the words were more to convince Sam than anything. So Dean let himself be kissed, and kissed Sam in return, settling his hands lightly at Sam's waist and leaning in until he could feel the pounding of Sam's heartbeat against his own chest. If this was 'can't,' he was okay with it.

Too soon, Sam pulled away. "Really," he said, and Dean could hear the difference in his tone; this was Sam being stubborn, digging in his heels. "We can't. I can't."

"But you want to," Dean said, hating how needy he sounded. When Sam didn't answer, Dean shoved him away, not nearly as roughly as he wanted to, and tried to regroup. "Jesus, anybody ever tell you you're a fucking tease?"

"Fuck." Sam turned away, running one hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to start anything. I just— This isn't going the way I planned."

Dean pushed off the wall and headed over to the nearest bed. He didn't have the energy to deal with Sam's issues right now; he just wanted to crash for a couple of hours and then maybe find something to eat. Crawling up the bed, he didn't even bother with his boots, just collapsed face-down into the pillow. "Tell you what," he mumbled. "When you figure out what you want, you be sure to let me know, okay?"

Sam was silent for so long that when he finally spoke, Dean was nearly asleep. "I'm jealous, okay?" Sam said quietly. "I know it's totally fucked up, but I can't help it."

Dean felt the mattress shift, and he opened one eye. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, back to him and face buried in his hands, and Dean debated for a few seconds before rolling onto his side and scooting close enough that he could curl up behind Sam. He could feel Sam tense as he rested a hand on the curve of his back.

"More fucked up than the rest of our lives?" he asked, and Sam made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I'm not going to live like a nun just because you're afraid of what you want."

[ ]

[He didn't get very far with the high-school kids; the girls rolled their eyes at him and told him to go skank somewhere else, and the guys were only interested in getting in his pants. By the end of the day, he was ready to chalk it up to the kid being in the wrong place at the wrong time.]

Then a second boy was killed.

Dean looked up from the Beretta he was field-stripping. "[Werewolf], huh?"

"I'm pretty sure," Sam said, flipping through Dad's journal and then comparing something to the laptop screen. "I mean, wolves don't usually attack people without serious provocation, and twice in as many nights? Something's up."

Nodding, Dean pulled out the box of silver bullets and started filling clips. When he glanced up, Sam was watching his hands, his lips slightly parted as though he'd been going to say something and then gotten distracted. Dean looked away without saying anything, either.

Nothing had really changed over the past week, at least as far as their interaction went. Dean was just pretending things were normal, ignoring it when he caught Sam staring at him, and emphatically not thinking about why Sam was suddenly taking half an hour or longer in the shower every morning. Things were never going to be the same, he knew that, but he still hoped they could get to a point where they were okay again; if not, Sam might as well head back to Stanford, because taking on anything bigger than a pissed off spirit or low-level demon with this crap between them was just asking for trouble. Dean didn't even let himself think about things being better than okay, because that kind of hope was for suckers. Still, in the back of his mind he knew why he was doing everything Sam asked, and he wasn't particularly proud of himself.

When he finished loading the clips, Dean tucked two of the pistols into his waistband, handed Sam the third and the shotgun loaded with silver buckshot, and shrugged into his leather jacket, which turned out to be annoyingly too big for him. Squashing down the handful of swear words that he wanted to cut loose with, he slipped the jacket off again and rummaged through the pockets until he came up with his favorite lighter, his second favorite lighter, and the little metal strike-box of waterproof matches. Shoving them into the front pocket of his jeans, he dumped the jacket on the bed and grabbed the duffle bag.

"Here," he tossed the bag at Sam, who obviously wasn't expecting it but managed a reasonable catch anyway. "Salt, lighter fluid, flares, first aid stuff, more ammo. Ready?"

Sam took a deep breath, and Dean held his own, waiting for Sam to say that he didn't think Dean should be coming, that he didn't think Dean was up to the task of hunting anymore, like Dean was some amateur instead of someone who'd been hunting nearly his whole life. He'd already started putting together sarcastic responses, so when Sam just said, "Yeah, I think so," and headed for the door, there was a second where Dean was mentally stumbling before he managed to regroup.

"Hey," he said, and Sam turned back to him. He tossed Sam the keys. "Why don't you drive." Sam's smile said he recognized the gesture for what it was, and Dean decided that maybe things were going to be okay after all.

[ ]

It wasn't that difficult to track the wolf across the lightly forested land, though if Dean hadn't spotted where it had doubled back on its own trail, there probably would've been a third victim. As it was, Sam's shotgun blast knocked the wolf out of the air in mid-leap at almost the same instant that Dean's dive took the teenage boy down to the ground. The wolf landed heavily on Dean's back and scrambled to regain its feet, its claws raking across Dean's bicep. He twisted around and tugged one of the Berettas from his waistband, firing point blank into its chest, his back and shoulder burning from the combination of recoil and awkward angle.

The wolf collapsed to the ground, eyes glassy, and Dean's sidearm dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, his entire right side knotting in pain. Son of a bitch, he knew better than to do what he'd done; the Beretta had a hell of a kick at the best of times. Under him, he could feel the teenager shift, could feel the unmistakable evidence of the guy's interest pressed up against his ribcage. He was feeling charitable and willing to ignore it—he'd had enough adrenaline-induced boners in his time, after all—until hands skated across his tits and the guy said, "So, we're skipping the foreplay?"

"Should've let the wolf get you," Dean muttered as he pushed up off the ground until he was kneeling over the guy, whose hands had followed him and were still cupping his tits.

"Come on, baby," the guy said. "Don't be like that."

Dean went to grab the guy's wrists and found himself suddenly on his back in the dirt, a couple hundred pounds of high school senior pinning him to the ground. He reined in his instinctive response—the guy was just an asshole, not a demon he needed to take out—but before he had a chance to do anything else, there was a sickening thud and the guy was slumping over, a dead weight on Dean's chest.

With a quick twist, Dean had levered him off and was sitting up with his second Beretta in hand, ready to take down whatever had just attacked the guy. Sam was standing over them, holding the shotgun by the barrel, his expression closer to panic than Dean had seen since he'd had to drag him away from Jess and his burning apartment.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Dean shoved the Beretta back into his waistband. Sam just looked at him, still wide-eyed, and understanding slammed into him, a sucker-punch to the gut: Sam didn't think Dean could take care of himself anymore.

Dean clenched his teeth, working to hold back all the angry words that wanted to spill out. Fighting with Sam wouldn't help anything, and right now they needed to take care of the werewolf's corpse. He started to get to his feet and Sam reached out, his hand going for Dean's arm to help him up, and Dean froze for a second, his first instinct being a right hook to Sam's jaw. Instead, he just shrugged off Sam's touch, ignoring the hurt look that generated, and said, "Why don't you start hauling Romeo here to the car. We can't leave him out here."

"Yeah, sure." But Sam sounded reluctant, and there was a hesitation in the way he moved, like he didn't want to leave Dean alone in the woods.

If Sam kept treating him like he was made of glass, Dean was going to have to lay a serious beating on him.

Ignoring Sam, Dean rummaged in the duffle bag until he found what he was looking for. Dad always said better safe than sorry; it was never a bad idea to salt and burn a corpse, any corpse, if they had time. Dean sprinkled salt over the wolf's body, drenched it in lighter fluid, and set it on fire. The smell of burning fur and charred flesh rose up, and he backed away as far as he could while still keeping an eye on the fire, reclaiming his other Beretta as he went. When the fire eventually burned itself out, Dean kicked dirt over the ashes and stirred the whole mess around with a handy stick, then headed back toward the car.

They dropped the guy—whose name turned out to be Travis—off at the sheriff's office and then headed back to the motel. This time Dean was the first out of the car and inside, leaving Sam to bring in the gear. Part of him wanted to pick a fight, still buzzing on adrenaline and anger, itching to hit something or someone, but he knew it was a bad idea. Instead, he sat down to take off his boots, not looking up when he heard the door close.

"You okay?" Warm fingers brushed lightly against his arm just below where the wolf had clawed him.

Dean nodded. The scratches stung but he wasn't too worried about it. He'd had far worse injuries, and since they'd very definitely killed the wolf, there was no way it could turn him. "Yeah," he said, "I'm fine." He pulled away, making it as casual as he could, and dug the first aid kit out of the duffle bag.

"Let me—"

"I've got it," Dean interrupted, his hands moving quickly to lay out all the things he'd need. It was nearly automatic at this point: sterile gauze, holy water, iodine, herb-infused antibiotic ointment, blessed bandages.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam reach out again, this time stopping before actually touching him. "That's going to be kind of awkward to deal with by yourself. At least let me give you a hand."

Dean whirled around, carefully keeping his hands at his sides even though he wanted to plant them in the middle of Sam's chest and shove, wanted to send him stumbling across the room to show that he still could. "Would you quit treating me like I can't do shit on my own anymore?" he said through gritted teeth. "Jesus. I sprout tits and all of a sudden everything's changed?"

It must have been obvious just how much his control was fraying, because Sam put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Things haven't changed, Dean," he said, pacing. "Not really. It's the same as always: you won't admit you need anything, I try to help, you push me away."

"I don't need anything." It wasn't true, no matter how much Dean wanted it to be, but it was safer to pretend it was.

Sam slammed his hand down on the table, scattering papers every which way. "See? That's what I mean. Would it kill you to let me help you with a bandage? Or to admit that sometimes you get freaked out?"

There were so many answers to that, most of them things he couldn't actually say to Sam. I don't know how, or It's not your job to take care of me, or The things I'm willing to do for you, that's what freaks me out. Instead, he tossed the flask of holy water to Sam, who looked surprised as hell but caught it.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed and tugged his sleeve up until it was well out of the way. Any other time he would've just lost the shirt, but right now—with the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife—he figured it was probably a bad idea to flash Sam.

For his part, Sam was no more gentle than usual. When Dean hissed at the burn of the iodine, Sam just said, "Suck it up, you pussy." And an instant later, when he realized what he'd said, his only reaction was an almost imperceptible flinch instead of the apology Dean was dreading.

"Bitch," Dean said, grinning.

"Jerk."

Dean woke in pain in the middle of the night. It wasn't his bicep, though, which surprised him; it was his stomach, and he felt like he was being turned inside out. He curled up in a ball in his bed, arms wrapped around himself and knees pulled nearly to his chest, trying to sort out the sensations. No nausea, which was at least something. His back hurt, too, though. Down low, an insistent burn of muscle aches that was in the wrong place to be from the Beretta's kick.

His first—completely freaked—thought was that somehow they hadn't destroyed the werewolf thoroughly enough, but there was no way that could be right. He'd salted and burned it himself. Maybe it was something else to do with the scratches, but he couldn't think of anything.

Dragging himself out of bed, the blanket wrapped around him, he sat down and opened the laptop. A dozen Google searches later, he was no closer to an answer.

"Hey," Sam's voice came, soft and sleepy, from the far side of the room. "You okay?"

The last thing Dean wanted was for Sam to get all mother-hen on him, so he said, "Yeah, I'm fine. I just couldn't sleep; thought I'd look for a new gig."

There was a rustling of sheets and blankets, and then Sam was sitting up in his bed, stretching. "Your arm?" he asked, and he'd at least made a mostly successful effort to sound casual.

Dean shrugged, ignoring the burn the move generated. "It's sore. I'll live. Go back to sleep."

He didn't wait to see whether Sam did, instead he pushed the blanket off his shoulders and headed into the bathroom. There was a second where time seemed to stand still, the dim light of the bathroom almost convincing him that he wasn't seeing what he thought he was, while his brain tried to put together familiar puzzle pieces in a way that fit into his new reality. Then the world seemed to shift on its axis and he was breathing again, everything clicking together as he realized what the blood staining his shorts meant.

"Sam—"

"Dean—"

They spoke at the same instant, and before Dean could say anything else the bathroom door swung open and he was looking up into his brother's worried eyes. "There's blood—"

Dean interrupted. "Yeah, I know," he said, trying for unconcerned. "It's apparently that time of the month." And his voice did not just break on those last few words.

Sam looked as shell-shocked as Dean felt, his gaze going briefly to the bloodstained shorts around Dean's ankles before his face flushed and his eyes focused resolutely on the wall over Dean's shoulder. "I'll, um. I'll go to the mini-mart down the road and get you...stuff," he said, his voice strained. "Will you be okay alone here for about fifteen minutes?"

Rolling his eyes, Dean said, "Well, I'm probably not going to bleed out that fast, so yeah, I should be fine." Sam started to say something, but Dean cut him off. "I'll take a shower while I'm waiting."

"Right."

Sam disappeared, leaving the bathroom door standing wide open. Dean pushed it shut, wiped himself clean of the blood the best he could—and Jesus but there seemed to be a hell of a lot of it, especially for something that was supposed to happen every month—and started the water running. When Sam pushed open the bathroom door again a few minutes later, Dean was still in the shower, his hands propped against the far wall of the tub enclosure and the hot water pounding down at full pressure against his lower back.

"Here," Sam said, and the embarrassed blush was back as he very obviously didn't look in Dean's direction. "I think there's instructions on the box. Or in the box. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

If he hadn't been afraid he'd never stop once he started, Dean would've laughed. Instead, he reluctantly turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, drying himself off before picking up the box of tampons Sam had left on the lid of the toilet tank. He read the whole box, opened it and read the paper insert inside—Toxic shock syndrome? What the fuck?—and was actually kind of pleased when everything went smoothly on the first try.

And that was when he realized that he didn't have clean shorts to wear out of the bathroom. He and Sam had been doing pretty well with their unspoken boundaries, and now here he was, about ready to cross lines that were better off uncrossed. With a grimace, he pulled his tee-shirt back on and wrapped his towel around his waist, then stepped out into the main room, heading directly for the dresser without looking around.

A pair of black boxer-briefs were laid out on top of the dresser.

Dean pulled them on under his towel, and turned to find Sam standing close, but not too close. "Here," Sam said, holding out a full hot water bottle. "This should help with the cramps. There's a bar of chocolate on the nightstand—Jess always said chocolate helped—and I bought some special pain reliever, if you want to try it. And you should probably take my bed, because we're going to need to wash the blood out of your blanket before you can use it again, and besides, I'm, like, really seriously awake now, so I may as well stay up—"

"Breathe, Sammy," Dean said, interrupting the torrent of words because they were making something in his gut and his chest ache—like the cramps only better and worse at the same time—and he didn't think he could take it if Sam kept going.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Right. I'll just go take care of the blanket and stuff," he said, jerking his thumb toward the bathroom. Cleaning blood out of clothing was something they were both damned good at, by necessity.

Dean just nodded and headed for what had been Sam's bed, crawling under the covers and trying to ignore the fact that the pillow smelled like Sam. He curled around the warmth of the hot water bottle and closed his eyes, listening to quiet sounds of water filling the bathtub, of Sam moving around the room. At some point he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, light was streaming in through a crack in the curtains and he could hear the soft tapping of the laptop's keyboard.

Rolling onto his back, he stretched, then froze as the movement made things...unpleasant. Carefully, he rolled out of the bed and onto his feet and headed toward the bathroom.

"Morning, sunshine," Sam called after him.

Dean slammed the door with more force than was strictly necessary.

There wasn't any blood in his shorts this time, but it had been a near thing. He tugged on the tampon string, trying not to think about the weird, slithery sensation of it slipping out of him, and then replaced it with a fresh one. This was going to get really old, really fast.

"You said there was chocolate?" he said as he stepped out of the bathroom. "And painkillers?"

Sam grinned. "Chocolate on the nightstand. Painkillers, too."

Dean filled one of the tiny plastic motel cups with water and took it with him back to the bed. His back was still aching, though not as bad as the night before. He wrestled the little bottle open and dumped two Midol into his palm, then popped them in his mouth and washed them down with water before he could think too much about what he was doing. The chocolate bar he spent more time on; it was some fancy brand, extra dark, and was worth savoring.

When he'd finished with the last square, he said, "So, you do this a lot when Jessica was—" He waved his hand, like he couldn't be bothered to finish the sentence, when the truth was that he was having a hard time with the words.

"Riding the crimson wave?" Sam offered, his voice tinged with amusement. "Yeah. She used to get cramps bad enough that they'd make her cry. I'd sit up with her, rub her back, change the water in the hot water bottle, stuff like that."

The idea of Sam taking care of someone like that— Well, it really wasn't all that surprising to Dean, actually; as soon as he'd been old enough, Sam had started trying to take care of him and their dad. For all that Dean had been a second father to Sam growing up, Sam had been a mother to all of them.

"You're gonna make somebody a wonderful wife someday, Sammy," Dean said. Pushing Sam's buttons had always been a good distraction, but this time Sam didn't rise to the bait.

Instead, the bastard just grinned at him and said, "Looks like you're in a better position for that, Deena."

Dean nailed him with the Midol bottle. "Eggs over easy, pancakes, sausage and bacon, hash browns, and lots of coffee."

"What?" Sam said, rubbing the spot on his shoulder where the bottle had connected.

Grinning, Dean said, "My breakfast order, bitch. Get going."

Sam looked stunned for a second, and Dean wondered if he'd gone too far, crossed some line he hadn't known was there, but then Sam threw back his head and laughed. "Man, you are one bossy chick," he said.

The food was hot and plentiful and Sam even brought him a bottle of real maple syrup to go with his pancakes. Dean thought it might be the best breakfast he ever had.

The plan to pack up and leave that morning changed once it became clear that Dean was going through tampons at a rate of one every two to three hours. His cramps had eased up, more or less, but he was more than happy to hang out on the motel room bed, flipping channels and watching Sam twitch every time he stopped on the softcore porn channel.

The plan changed again when they heard what sounded like an endless stream of sirens blazing by at ten o'clock that night. Sam pushed aside the curtain and looked out. Dean tugged his jeans on, and had just finished with his boots when Sam turned back around. Before Sam could say something stupid, like maybe suggesting that Dean wait at the motel, Dean grabbed the keys off the nightstand and said, "Let's go."

From what they could gather from the paramedics and the rangers, it was another wolf attack. [Not too suspicious on its own, but the victim—Travis Whitfield—sent up red flags.]

"So, a werebear?" Dean suggested on the way back to the motel.

Sam shook his head. "I've never heard of anything like that. I mean, there could be werebears, I guess, but the lunar cycle's all wrong. I'll have to check online to be sure, but I've never heard of more than a three-day window, and we're past that tonight."

While Sam went to work on the laptop, Dean stretched out on the bed and started skimming through Dad's journal. It had pretty extensive entries on werewolves—nothing about other were-animals, though—and none of it seemed to fit with their situation, particularly the fact that whatever this thing was, it seemed to be targeting specific people. Werewolves were truly wolves for the duration of their change; there was no human intelligence guiding them.]

Flipping the page, he skimmed down, a rough sketch of an eagle catching his attention. Under it was a single word: transmigration.

"Hey, Sam," he said, tapping the page thoughtfully with his finger. "Look up transmigration of souls, would you?"

Once they started looking at commonalities between the victims, it was painfully obvious. All three boys had been on the local high school's varsity wrestling team. An early morning visit to the wrestling coach turned up the fact that the victims had been placed on suspension pending investigation of an "alcohol-related incident." The coach was obviously trying to make the incident sound like nothing more than a few underage kids sneaking beers, but Dean had a bad feeling about it.

The nagging sense of wrong that had been lying heavy in his gut only got worse when whistles and catcalls followed him through the locker room on his way out of the coach's office. When one of the guys grabbed his ass, Dean didn't hesitate to take him down, putting his foot lightly on the guy's throat until the guy saw the error of his ways.

Once outside again, he realized Sam was looking at him with a weird little half smile. "What?" he demanded, knowing that he sounded more than a little defensive.

"Nothing, man. Just— I think you maybe scarred that kid for life."

"He deserved it," Dean said, but his thoughts had shifted along another track. He opened his mouth to ask Sam if he thought maybe the jocks' tendency to play grab-ass had anything to do with the deaths, but Sam was already talking.

"What if someone else felt that way?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded, pleased that they were in sync again. "And what if this someone else isn't as forgiving as I am?"

If the coach was surprised to see them again so soon, he didn't show it, but when they asked for a list of the members of the wrestling team, his attitude changed. "Who did you say you were with?"

"UCF," Sam said without hesitation. "We're doing advance work for Coach Sanford. He'll be doing the actual scouting in a few weeks, but we're supposed to check out the talent and let him know how much time he'll want to spend here."

The coach deflated. "Well, this'll be a pretty short stop for him. There's only five seniors on the varsity team, and three of 'em are dead." He wrote the other two names—[name] and [name]—on a sheet of paper and handed it over to Sam.

It wasn't too hard to get the story from [name]; between Dean's less-than-gentle grip on his balls and Sam's less-than-gentle reminder that he could be the next victim if they didn't figure out what was going on before nightfall, [name] spilled his guts.

[ ]

Patricia Hanson was a petite redhead with freckles across the bridge of her nose and a nervous smile. She sat alone at a table outside the local drive-up, her body folded in on itself like she didn't want to be noticed. When Dean slid onto the bench across from her, she looked up, a flash of panic in her eyes that was gone almost as quickly as it had come.

Dean tried the same smile with her that he used on little kids. "Hey," he said, "You're Patricia, right? Patricia Hanson?"

"Trish, yeah." She looked back down at her food, which hadn't been eaten so much as picked apart.

"I'm Deena," Dean said, feeling awkward and really, really hating Sam at the moment. Even if Sam had been right when he said that he'd probably scare the girl if he tried to talk to her, and that Dean would probably have better luck getting her to open up. "Listen, I know what happened with the guys on the wrestling team—" Her head shot back up, her eyes wide and definitely panicked as she stared at him. "—and I want to help you," he emphasized quietly.

She just stared at him, like he was some kind of freak. Which, okay, yeah. But not about this. He tried again. "I was there, Trish. I know you saw me when you attacked Travis Whitfield the first time."

Shaking her head, Trish said, "I— I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you know what would've happened if that wolf had died with your soul still inside it?" This time her eyes darted away, and he knew he'd gotten to her, at least a little. "Your body would be a shell. Your soul would wander forever, like a lost spirit."

For a second, he thought she wasn't going to respond at all. Then: "If you're so worried about it," she said, her jaw clenched, "maybe you shouldn't try to stop me."

He shook his head. "I can't just let you kill them, Trish." When she went to stand, he put his hand out, catching her wrist gently. "Didn't they take enough already? Don't give them this kind of power over you."

"They don't have any power over me," she hissed through her teeth. "They don't have any power at all."

"Were you a murderer before?" He let go of her wrist.

She stared at him, eyes wide and looking like he'd physically slapped her, then she turned on her heel and started walking away. He was getting to his feet to follow her—not that he thought she'd actually listen to him, but he also didn't think he had much choice—when he realized she was going right past where Sam was sitting.

Sam nodded slightly at him, and then turned his attention to Trish when she got closer to him. Dean couldn't hear what Sam said to her, but he could see that Sam was obviously trying to look as innocuous as possible. It was kind of laughable, though, considering Sam's size. Then Sam gave her the puppy-dog eyes and Dean could see her start to relax—just a tiny bit, but it might be enough. Sam said something else, gestured at the bench across the table from him, and for a second Dean thought she was going to shake her head and walk away, but instead she sat down and Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

Gesturing in Dean's direction, Sam said something else to her, and she glanced quickly over at Dean before shaking her head. Sam gave her his sincere look, leaning into her space, but downward, too, so that he was

[forward and down until he was looking up at her from]

[Even when Dean was actually female, Sam was still more of a girl than he was. Dean was tempted to tell Sam that, but decided [].

Dean let his legs fall apart, felt the weight of Sam settling between his thighs, and it was as close to perfection as he'd ever been.]


End file.
